JAN.
for Good Jobs
RADIO
toy 64-page. Illustrated book. “Win IUch Rewards in Radio.'' It describes
many fascinating types of Radio jobs, toils how N.R.I. trains you at
i% l uG%£isr& is & »ar P SM
YOU Build These and Other
Radio Circuits with
6 Big Kits I Send!
boom in Radio Sales and Servicing that's coming when n tv
re again available—when Frequency Modulation and Electronic#
emoted—when Telov i t
— PoOco Radio. loudspeaker Systems, Radio
;,>; %°Z , D6Ter sco 1 Umo whon « win b, «,
Many Beginners Soon Make $5. $10 a Week EXTRA in Spare Time
The day y ou enr oll for my Course I start sending yon EXTRA
MONEY JOB SHEETS that help show how to make EXTRA money Axing
Radios in spare time while still learning. I send you SIX big kits of
Radio parts as part of my Course. You LEARN Radio fundamentals from
my illustrated, easy-to-grasp lessons—PRACTICE what you learn by
building real itadlo Circuits—and USE your knowledge to make EXTRA
money!
Find Out What N.R.I. Can Do For YOU
JOB
OUR 30th YEAR OF TRAINING MEN FOR SUCCESS IN RADIO
RADIO JOBS LIKE THESE GO TO MEN I TRAINEO
1200 > Month in Own ItOaWMklnSpvnTIm*
HsrriSf'bjrs wmm sX'atfWja ‘
a my tenth lesson. I moUa
I $600 tn^ii^yrar imd a
S5S**5
«SP 3 B
in local and
.. , ’
• ' 1 •!■•
• it t-M-"'.
ssssr
lUMtMfs
rod experimental purposes,
Gives valuable practice 1
MAIL THIS NOW
When answering advertisements please mention Speed Western Stories
SPEED WESTERN ' sr o.
%
January; 1945 Vol. 3, No. 5
CONTENTS
HARD-LUCK HELLER 4
Laurence Donovan
RED GOLD FOR KILLERS . 26
Paul Hanna
DUDE GIRL’S DESPERADO 38
Larry Dunn
BUZZARD BAIT . 52
T. V. Faulkner
BORN CURIOUS 66
Randolph Barr
KILLER HANGS A LAW STAR 78
Walton Grey
Special Features
Isle of Happy Marriages
Indians Still Peril the White Man!
Animals Well-Armed ...
3 WESTERN STORIES !■
- -- -- ... ..—.jd monthly by Trojan Pub¬
lishing Corporation. 29 Worthington street, Springfield 3. Mass. Edi¬
torial offices at 125 East Forty-sixth Street. New York 17. N. Y. Frank
Armer, Publisher. Kenneth Hutchinson and Wilton Matthews. Editors.
“ ^ -- - g -- - <vs at the Office at
RAF
YOUR OWN FUTURE NOW!
At the drafting board you can design a rewarding future for yourself. No
one else can do this for you—and the time to start on it is now. Great
opportunities are on the way—and they aren’t going to wait for any one
to catch up.
At the drafting board today is the man who will be drafting tomorrow’s
aircraft units, automobiles, buildings, air-conditioning systems. With the
knowledge he is acquiring now, he is drawing up his personal world within
the great new world.
The greater the opportunities, the fewer the places for the untrained.
The International Correspondence Schools make training in drafting—and
400 other technical and business subjects—open to all. In or out of the
Armed Forces, no matter where or how you’re situated, famous I. C. S.
Courses are available for spare-time study at low cost.
In drafting, there’s an I. C. S. Course especially designed for you whether
you’re a beginner ambitious to qualify as a draftsman or a draftsman who
wants to become a designer and to keep on moving up from there. It’s worthy
of note that nearly every “big name” American in engineering and produc¬
tion acquired experience at the drafting board. And that many of them
started by mailing the coupon you’re now looking at.
INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOLS [CS
BOX 4753-B, SCRANTON ?, PENNA.
Without cost or obligation, please send me booklet and full particulars about the course before which I have marked Xt
When answering advertisement* please mention Srf.kd Western Stories
HARD-LUCK
R AUCOUS, ribald voices were only
a blurred roaring in Conway’s
ears, he was that hungry. That
last long swig of redeye had dulled his
blinding hangover some, but it had also
awakened all the pangs of nigh sixty
grubless hours.
Conway scrubbed with grimy knuckles
at the thick beard that appeared to have
overgrown his sense of hearing as well
as giving him the disreputable look of a
rangetown saddle bum. Only he recalled
vaguely that he couldn’t be a saddle bum
because he hadn’t any horse.
One hostile voice was raised above the
others. By concentrating upon it,
maintaining a precarious balance
by holding onto the edge of the
bar, Conway made out it was the
was meaning. Not Tom Conway, once
champion trick rider and fancy dead-
shot of the big-time rodeo circuit. No¬
body ever talked to Tom Conway like
that.
“Y’hear me, yuh moochin’ sot!" The
bartender^ insulting tone was turning
the heads of cowpokes, townies, and trail
sneering mouth of the half-greaser bar¬
tender who was speaking. It seemed to
Conway that the speech was directed at
him.
“I stake a drunken galoot to one drink,
bo more!” the bartender snarled con¬
temptuously. "Now yuh can either git
to swampin’ out the place, or yuh can
git out! I p’fer yuh git out I”
No, it couldn't be to him the bartender
HELLER...
To be a footloose cowpoke, broke and hungry, is plenty bad
enough. Tom Conway, ex-champion rodeo performer, found
that out. But when the world started to kick him around, he
had to fight back — and he
promptly fought himself into
a jam to top anything ever
seen in those parts!
Smoke shot out from the bandage
on his arm. The lead ripped hard.
I
By LAURENCE
DONOVAN
riders crowding the Red Ace soloon. M I
said, git out, pronto!’’
H E HAD reached the utter depths of
humiliation. Ten long years of bone-
break riding, of continuous gun-slings
5
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
ing practice, had carried him to the top.
Two weeks of trying to rub Lola Deming,
the rodeo girl with more of a yen for
another man's riches than for romance,
out of his life and his mind had brought
him to the bottom.
‘Tm just goin’,” muttered Conway,
trying to put on an air of injured dig¬
nity that got him only coarse guffaws
from the crowd.
His scuffed boots, one with a heel
missing, caused him to trip and stumble
in what he meant to be a dignified de¬
parture. His cactus-ripped levis and
sweated, dirty shirt effectively covered
his lean, dangerous strength.
“Looks as how the damn’ tramp has a
ramrod down his yeller back!” bellowed
a six-foot cowpuncher whose bloodshot
eyes were on a level with Conway’s. “Gi’
the bum another whiskey, Pete, an’ he’ll
think he owns Brazos! Haw! Haw!”
“Brazos?” Conway halted, holding onto
his balance with an effort.
Now he remembered. A Mex sheep-
herder had told him the only law in Red
Rock county law with the sheriff of Bra¬
zos. That was why he had limped the last
twenty miles, weak with hunger, dizzy
with the hangover of a two weeks’ unbro¬
ken drunk.
He had been afoot for three days be¬
fore that last twenty miles. The final
folding money of his two thousand stake,
his horse and its five-hundred-dollar rig¬
ging, his silver-inlaid, fancy sixes with
the sure shooting target barrels—all of
this was behind him.
All of his worldly possessions, except
his ragged duds, had been stripped from
him at the faro table in Mezquite, which
was the one other town in range-rich Red
Rock county. After that, less than half
conscious, he had been run out of town.
No. He had been dumped on a badlands
trail outside the town’s limits. He had
been pulled off his own horse, across
which he had been laid limply, and left
lying in a cactus patch.
This recollection made a confused whir¬
ligig in Conway’s saturated brain as he
repeated the word, Brazos?”
"An’ what if it is Brazos?” sneered
the bartender. “Yore kind ain’t wanted
here! Now git out!”
But Conway had the persistence of a
normally quiet and competent fellow who
had long been accustomed to relying upon
uncanny speed with his guns and fists.
That he was now unarmed, weak and
partly paralyzed from the redeye in his
veins, did not turn aside his purpose.
“Is the sheriff in town?” he said, his
manner and words producing a sudden
pool of silence about him.
There was a sudden peal of hard laugh¬
ter. The big cowpuncher with the blood¬
shot eyes stepped in front of him.
“Hey, lookit what’s honin’ to see the
sheriff!” The puncher’s hand darted out
and seized Conway’s dirty shirt, twist-
ihg it into a bunch. "Fella, if Sheriff Sell¬
ers was in Brazos, a whiskey-beggin’ bum
like you wouldn’t be!”
Punchers and trail riders and townies
whooped mockingly. Conway’s stomach
weakness was overcome momentarily.
One fist jabbed an unexpected punch into
the big puncher’s belly. As the puncher
grunted and doubled, his head was
snapped back by a fist that traveled to
his chin so fast nobody could see it.
Nearly two hundred pounds of sur¬
prised cowpoke went down, his head
striking the brass footrail of the bar. He
rolled over and did not get up.
There was an interval of quiet, then
the bartender yelled.
“The sneaking son hit ’ini foul—git
’im!”
C ONWAY’S flash of power faded at
seeing what he had done. His arms
failed him. His arms were hammered
down as he tried to guard his face. He
was nearly blinded when he was pro¬
pelled through the batwing doors, falling
flat on his back.
Conway shook his head, getting to his
hands and knees when his attackers
stopped at the saloon doors. He was on
the planks of the sidewalk, clawing for
balance in oozy mud that bad been
tracked up from the rain-mired street.
He first became conscious of small feet
and trim ankles. There was a lacy froth
of white petticoats as a bunched skirt
HARD-LUCK HELLER
7
was held up from contact with the dirty
walk.
Conway managed to get up, swaying.
He saw a tall, dignified rooster with a
hawkish nose and thin, scornful lips
showing above a fancy vest with white
braiding. A hard hat placed the man as
some citizen of importance, but Conway
passed him over.
The girl was slim, young, and shapely,
with a dark, pretty face.
“I didn’t mean—sorry, miss—” Con¬
way’s speech was thick through his
puffed lips. “Y’ see, I stumbled.”
“Get outa the way, you whiskey sot!”
rasped the man. “Come on, Margaret.
This hellhole needs to be cleaned out.”
Perhaps Conway did not quite realize
the appearance he made, standing there.
In the girl’s eyes he must have repre¬
sented something a shade lower in hu¬
manity than she had previously encoun¬
tered.
The girl stepped aside to avoid possi¬
ble contact and held her head high and
her dark eyes averted as she passed on.
Conway stood there a moment, blinking
stupidly.
“That’s what I’ve become,” he mut¬
tered, and turned, looking up the single
street.
It was late and there were lights in
only a few of the straggling buildings.
He could see the black-lettered sign that
said EATERY.
The encounter in the saloon, the shock
of the girl's contemptuous avoidance of
him, and the cold misery of a light rain
drizzling upon his hatless head had
brought keener consciousness of the
worst hangover he had ever known. The
one drink in the Red Ace had only made
his suffering keener.
Plodding along the sidewalk, limping
on the heelless beet, Conway came to
keener realization that it was but a short,
straight drop from the top to the utmost
bottom. He could not know that this
night had yet to prove to him he had
not by any means scraped all of the hard
luck barrel.
The roaring of a flooded creek at the
rear of one long row of buildings seemed
to mingle with the buzzing in his own
head. From a half open door of the Eat¬
ery restaurant came the tantalizing odor
of frying steak, and it dizzied him to
the point of holding onto the wall of a
building to steady himself.
He went on up the street, looking
across at the deserted frame courthouse
and the jail. There was one light in the
jail office, but when he tried the door it
was locked.
Conway recalled it had been said in
the saloon that the sheriff was out of
town. Bone-tired and hungry to the point
of nausea, Conway guessed he must try
and find some dry corner and reach for
some sleep.
Fumbling in his pockets, he had still
another shock. His fingers touched a
cold, round half dollar. He got it out,
clutching it with unbelief.
He almost forgot his dizziness as he
stumbled toward the Eatery. Approach¬
ing the half open door, Conway scarcely
noticed the tall figure entering ahead of
him. He was pushing the door open for
himself when his gaze went to the end
of the short counter.
T HE waitress was buxom and blonde.
Her hair was frowsy, but she had a
plump, passably pretty face. As Con¬
way saw it, the tall man entering ahead
of him had reached over the counter
and was pulling the girl toward him
forcibly.
The girl’s eyes flashed to him, and
Conway imagined her look was an ap¬
peal. He forgot all that had passed, and
his own unpopular status in this town of
Brazos.
With two long strides Conway reached
the man whose back was toward him.
The girl cried out as Conway gripped
the man's shoulder, twisting him about.
The face that came around was that
of the hawkish-nosed gent in the fancy
vest.
“What do you think—so it’s you
again!”
The man rapped out the words. At
the same time the girl’s cry became
unexpected words.
8
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
“Well, of all things 1 Throw the bum
out, Corley 1 It’s getting so a girl can’t—”
Conway got it. The girl’s tone was
indignant, but her anger was directed
at him, at his interruption of this little
byplay to which she must have been a
willing party.
His understanding caused Conway to
hesitate. Before he could recover, hard
knuckles smashed into his face. He went
down and his breath left him as the
other man’s toe caught him in the short-
ribs.
The hand gripping his collar was steel
strong. For the second time Conway
found himself on his back on a Brazos
sidewalk.
He got up slowly. The tall man who
had knocked him down, called Corley
by the blonde flirt in the restaurant,
was striding away. And the restaurant
door slammed shut, with the rasping of
a bolt.
Seconds later, Conway discovered the
locking of the door meant nothing. His
single half dollar had been spun from
his hand when he fell.
Blood trickled from Conway’s nose.
He made his way along the buildings
behind which the flooded creek tumbled.
There was a vacant stretch where half
a dozen horses were tied. Back of this
loomed a wagon shed with an open
front.
Perhaps here was a temporary haven
where he might stay dry and grab some
sleep, thought Conway bitterly. The shed
was almost concealed from the street by
a single building with barred windows,
marking it as the town bank.
Conway was trudging into the mud
by the tie rack when an oldster with a
long beard came weaving toward the
horses.
“Hiya, stranger 1” the oldster greeted
thickly. “Ain't yuh the tramp they put
upon in the saloon? Bet yuh’re thirsty
as sin. An’ I got jest what yuh need.
Here, yuh take one o’ these bottles. I’d
sure ’nough fall off my hoss if’n I kept
both ’quarts.”
The oldster laughed drunkenly, pushed
the whiskey into Conway’s hands, then
turned and climbed into the saddle. He
was gone before the dazed Conway
could have protested, even if he had
been so minded.
“At long last—long last,” he muttered.
“Maybe it’s a sign my luck’s changing’.”
CHAPTER II
Fortune Is Funny
HREE LONG, potent swigs from
the bottle and downright exhaus¬
tion lulled Conway into uneasy slumber.
A few forksful of damp hay made a
fairly good bed in the darkness of the
shed. The noise of the flooding creek,
below the cutbank on which the shed
stood, was a lullabye.
Conway dropped off, temporary cour¬
age heating his blood. He had the happy
knowledge that half of the quart of
redeye remained to open his eyes come
morning, or, more safely, a little before
daylight.
Tromping of a horse nipped Con¬
way’s booted foot and awakened him.
He could not have slept long for the
stimulation of his goodnight drinks was
still with him.
Conway had the good sense to remain
motionless. He saw that three saddled
horses had been tied to a pole under
the shed. It had been his good fortune
that a light had not been used.
There were voices then. They sounded
outside, a few yards away. Conway got
up cautionsly, edging toward the open
front of the shed. There he could see
the shadowy figures of two men in the
light from a partly opened door.
“You wait, Bascom, till you hear the
shooting, an’ then have the horses
ready,” spoke a voice that Conway had
good reason to remember.
The tone had the cutting edge of the
hard, thin lips that had twice assailed
his ears tonight. The figure in the half
open door could be none other-than that
of the hawk-nosed Corley, of the fancy
vest and of flirtatious dallying with the
blonde waitress.
“Yup, I got yuh,” replied the other
man.” But don’t keep ’em too long, so’s
the gunnin’ rousts out enough for a
posse.”
HARD-LUCK HELLER
9
“Contez an’ Rader know their busi¬
ness,” said Corley sharply. “An don't try
any split-up of the money, Bascom,
before you make the Devil Rocks. Blacky
know’s there's to be seventy thousand
in gold and he’s to wait until I get to the
Rocks tomorrow night.”
"Maybe yuh ain’t trustin’ us, Corley,”
Hard knuckles smashed iMo
Cdnuxiy's face and he went down.
growled the other man. “Blacky ain’t
likin’ it none too much that yuh ain’t
the guts to do the shootin’ o’ Contez.
£-eavin’ <Jontez-for Boot Hill is bein’ done
as a throw-off for you, so’s it’ll look like
10
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
yuh done all yuh could.”
"You leave this to Blacky and me!”
snapped Corley’s voice. "It is Blacky
Bole that wants the Mex out of the
way, an’ not me!”
"Jest as yuh say,” replied the man
Baseom. “Bring on them sacks. With
Contez killed, like he was holdin’ up
the bank, me an’ Rader are hittin’ the
back trail down the creek. We ain’t
makin’ ourselves targets for ary wild
shootin’ in the street.”
Conway’s throat was suddenly dry. He
had heard enough to know that Corley
must be the banker. That accounted
for his important appearance.
And Conway had reason to remember
the name of Blacky Bole, even if he
had never met the notorious outlaw who
was reputed to come and go about as
he pleased in Red Rock county.
In fact, Conway had lost his money,
his horse, and his guns to some of the
gunnies of this same Blacky Bole, back
there in Mezquite. He had been sober
enough to learn that, and for that rea¬
son he had pushed on to Brazos, hoping
to enlist the help of the law.
Corley disappeared a few seconds.
When he came back, Conway heard
the unmistakable clinking of gold in two
sacks that were passed over to the
man Baseom.
The outlaw turned and come toward
the horses. Conway made himself thin
against the inner wall of the shed where
it was darkest. Baseom was hurrying
and did not pause to look around.
He placed the two sacks in the saddle
pockets of one of the horses and strode
back to the rear door of the bank.
As the banker passed over two more
sacks of gold, Conway heard Baseom
talking again.
“Heard Blacky say he’s expectin’ yuh
to have the layout of the Spence ranch
ready for him when yuh git yore cut
on this deal, Corley. Said yuh had been
shinin’ up to this Spence gal long enough
to git the figgers on that old safe, so’s
we won’t be troubled to bust it with
powder.”
C ONWAY had a wish at this mo¬
ment for the fast target guns he
had lost at Mezquite. He had seen enough
of Banker Corley to judge that one of
his habits was playing in with more than
one girl.
Yet he wondered now if the pretty,
dark girl called Margaret could be the
Spence girl of whom Baseom had
spoken ?
Corley had cut back with an angry
reply.
"I’ll take care of the Spence matter,
Baseom!” stated the banker. “That’s
my end of it and none of Blacky’s busi¬
ness.”
“Hold it, Corley!” rasped Baseom.
“Blacky wouldn’t like it if yuh got an
idea of hitchin’ up with Margie Spence
an’ maybe euttin’ it thin on your deal
with him!”
Then Baseom was again coming over
to place two more sacks of the bank
gold in the pockets of another saddle.
Conway took a long pull at the whiskey
as Baseom made his third trip back to
the bank door. He was not at all clear
on what he ought to do. Open honesty
and resentment at Corley’s earlier treat¬
ment of him directed that he upset what
he could plainly understand to be a
faked bank holdup.
But he had seen two guns swinging
low on Baacom’s thighs. He would be
compelled to tackle the outlaw with
empty hands, if he interfered. Added to
that, no doubt Banker Corley was armed,
and then two others had been mentioned
as having a part in the supposed holdup.
This snapped Conway's mind to what
had been said about one of the outlaws,
Contez. He had been mentioned as a
Mex. And evidently he was to be made
the sacrifice in this faked robbery as a
sure throw-off for the benefit of Corley.
Conway had little time to think. Con¬
tez might be of a kind that would not
be worth saving. Yet it rubbed Conway
wrong, more so than the open fact that
Banker Corley was framing the holdup
of his own bank for a split with the
notorious Blacky Bole.
Baseom was coming toward the horses
with the final two sacks of gold. Corky
had closed the rear door of the bank
and the darkness was as black as a
drizzling rain could make it.
Although he had been weakened by
hunger, Conway was for the time fired
by the whiskey he had consumed. More¬
over, his rage helped to overcome his
near exhaustion.
He could see Bascom’s bulky figure
vaguely. He knew the outlaw’s hands
were weighted by the two sacks that
were to be placed in the saddle pockets
of the third horse.
Conway crouched, wishing he had
looked for some kind of weapon, but
had no time now. Bascom passed the
edge of the shed wall. His back was
toward Conway as he cursed and
fumbled with the saddle pockets of the
third horse.
Conway crept forward, flexing his
fingers, hoping his hands had the
strength he would need. If he could
but stun the outlaw and seize one of
his guns, then reach the street in the
front of the bank, he had an idea he
might be in time to prevent the cold¬
blooded killing of the one called Contez.
Conway was about to launch himself
from his toes. His foot encountered
a dry bit of board and it snapped loudly.
Conway jumped and Bascom whirled,
cursing. The movement threw Conway
off and he lashed out with a fist that
12
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
glanced off Baseom’s shoulder.
“El diablol ” grated the outlaw in Mex,
and Conway felt the point of a gun
jerked into his ribs.
C ONWAY twisted, driving a fist for
the outlaw’s stomach as the gun
exploded. For the ensuing half minute
Conway was uncertain of what happened.
He felt the bite of lead across his ribs
and he dropped purposely to one knee,
throwing himself between two of the
horses.
The outlaw was upon him then, trying
to see for a finishing shot. At the same
time Conway heard other shooting break
out in the street. He realized now he
would be too late to save a Mex outlaw
named Contez who was to be the throw-
off dead man for Brazos townsmen to
pick up.
And Conway wasn't sure that the
townsmen would not find another dead
man, for Bascom’s gun blazed almost in
his face. Powder burned Conway's neck,
but he drove ahead then, putting every¬
thing he had into what he meant as a
stomach blow.
But Conway’s driving fist accom¬
plished more, much more than he in¬
tended. He felt skin rasp from his
knuckles on the hard metal of the gun
in the outlaw’s hand.
The gun exploded again. Bascom ut¬
tered a choked cry. He came forward,
his weight knocking Conway to one side.
Out in the street the fake holdup guns
were still blasting. Bascom seemed to
have received a mortal wound from his
own iron. Conway seized that gun, pulled
the other one from Bascom’s holster,
then changed his mind and took the
filled belts off the outlaw.
The shooting had stopped out in the
street. Conway could hear startled shouts
from the direction of the Red Ace sa¬
loon. For a long minute Conway was
motionless, listening, waiting.
“When the other gunnie shows up,
I’ll nail him,” gritted Conway. “If I
get him, then with this Bascom out,
maybe dead, Brazos won’t be calling
me a drunken bum.”
Movement on the ground in the shed
turned Conway. The outlaw Bascom sud¬
denly reared to his feet. Conway held
the wounded man’s guns. He could have
put another bullet into him, have made
sure, but now Bascom was unarmed,
hurt.
Conway took a step toward him. He
was too late. Perhaps Bascom had been
stunned, was still in a stupor. With¬
out a sound the outlaw sprang away,
trying to run, his figure a staggering,
weaving shadow.
Before he could understand Bascom’s
probably panicked effort to escape, the
outlaw was plunging away from him
directly toward the cutbank. Conway did
not dare cry out, but he made a try
at reaching the wounded man.
Five seconds later Conway drew him¬
self back from the crumbling clay at
the top of the bank. Bascom had gone
over, falling outward and down into the
roaring flood of the creek. He uttered
no sound as the turbulent creek rolled
on.
Conway came back to the horses in
the shed. He repeated what he had
said while Bascom lay wounded and, he
had believed, dead.
“With this Bascom out, maybe dead,
Brazos won’t be calling me a drunken
bum.”
The setup was changed by this disap¬
pearance of the outlaw.
CHAPTER III
Gold Can Be Sticky
A S soon as he had uttered the words,
“Brazos won’t be calling me a
drunken bum,” Conway realized that he
was likely to throw a loop that would
tangle and ensnare him. He was mo¬
mentarily in possession of three horses,
their saddle pockets laden with a sum
of seventy thousand in gold.
“Could be doggoned sticky gold at
that,” muttered Conway, as shouting
out in the street informed him the
townies who were awake were con¬
verging upon the bank.
Banker Corley appeared suddenly at
the front corner of the building. Con-
HARD-LUCK HELLER
IS
way heard the banker gain attention.
“I plugged one o’ the thieves!” an¬
nounced Corley loudly. “But there were
three or four of them, and the others
got away! They got about all the gold on
hand, maybe seventy or eighty thous¬
and!"
Conway debated swiftly. He could
take a chance and come out leading
the three horses, return the gold, and
denounce the banker. But could he, a
stranger, branded as a drunken bum,
make it good?
That was taken out of his hands. A
shadow loomed at the corner of the
shed. A man was there, moving slowly,
trying to reach the horses.
“Senor Bascom!” gasped the man in
a hoarse whisper. “Help me, amigo. I
am hit. My arm is broken. Rader turned
traitor, and he shot me. But I was too
quick for him and he is dead.”
“Yeah ?” grunted Conway, his eyes
accustomed to the darkness and seeing
that the wounded outlaw was holding a
gun upon him. “You killed Rader, Con¬
tez?”
It was not the way it had been meant
to be. Conway was glad, but could not
have explained why, except that he hated
any sneaking gulcher, and the kind of
a trick that had been intended to rub
out Contez.
In that blackness Conway was able
to boost Contez into a saddle. The
wounded man had been called a Mex, and
he had spoken so, except that his Eng¬
lish words were those of a well-born
hombre or one who had lived so many
years with Americans that his accent
had worn off.
“Three of the scoundrels headed out
toward the mountain trail, up the
street!”
Corley was directing the crowd. Curses
and mixed orders indicated a posse would
be formed, mostly one of half drun'ren
cowboys and townsmen from the Red
Ace saloon. The kind that would have
but one idea, that of bringing the bank
holdups in—dead.
The gold had become stickier than ever.
And Contez was leaning weakly over the
neck of his horse, fumbling at the reins.
“We must vamo8a pronto ," said Con¬
tez. “Let us go.”
Conway vaulted into a saddle. He
caught the reins of the third horse. He
delayed purposely and Contez rode around
the open shed and into an unseen trail
following the top of the cutbank above
the creek.
Conway heard the usual exuberant yells
and shooting as the Brazos posse started
in pursuit. The yells and the shooting be¬
came fainter.
“Corley was smart,” whispered Con¬
way. “And this Contez is clever and
quick, or he wouldn’t have gunned Rader
when the trap was baited the other way.
But it looks like we have a clean get¬
away.”
T WENTY minutes and perhaps two
miles later, Conway saw Contez lift
himself erect in the saddle and pull up
the horse. The roaring of the flood had
diminished at this point. Also the rain
had ceased and early, gray daylight
streaked the sky.
The wounded Contez appeared to have
recovered strength. He brought his
horse around, as if with an effort, and
then his hand whipped up with a gun
pointed at Conway, whose face must still
have been obscure.
“You will get down, Senor Bascom!”
The wounded outlaw gave the unexpect¬
ed order with grimness riding his voice.
“You will walk the mile down to the ford.
Blacky and the others will be waiting on
the other side, and you will tell them that
Rader is dead and that I Juan Contez,
have the gold. It will be returned to
those who trusted it to Corley.”
Conway was thinking this might be a
good solution of the whole problem. He
could dismount and walk away. Contez
would probably do as he had indicated.
The gold would be returned, and he, Con¬
way, could slide out of It.
But would it not be well to inform Con¬
tez of Bascom’s disappearance and of his
own identity? Something in the wounded
outlaw’s voice and manner inspired a
liking for the Mexican who had been
smart enough to beat a plant to kill him.
“I agree we should return the gold
14
SPEED WESTER* STORIES
to its rightful owners,” said Conway
quickly. “You see, Contez, I’m not Bas-
com. I'm—”
Contez cursed and roweled his horse
alongside him. Light had increased until
Conway could see the man’s dark, high¬
boned face and his glittering eyes. He.
could also see the gun held steadily upon
him.
"Scmgre de Dios!” exclaimed Contez.
"Then who are you? Speak quickly.
Where is Bascom?”
"I am nobody, a drunken bum,” said
Conway quietly. “I chanced upon Banker
Corley robbing his own bank. I fought
with Bascom and shot him, and he is in
the creek. Now I will go and you can re¬
turn the gold.”
"It is a trick—no—”
But Conway used the outlaw’s moment
of surprise and hesitation to spur his own
horse suddenly forward.
He counted upon the strangely per¬
verse conscience of Contez, who evident¬
ly had been truthful when he had said he
would return the stolen loot. He was sure
Contez would be slow to shoot a man who
had just announced the killing of Bas¬
in that Conway was right. The gun ex¬
ploded, but that was perhaps reflex ac¬
tion as Conway’s hand struck and 'his
fingers locked upon the outlaw’s one good
wrist.
The gun fell from Contez’s hand and
the outlaw drooped in the saddle.
, “Enough, senor,” he said painfully. “I
hope you speak the truth. If so, you must
hasten. Blacky Bole will be—”
Blacky Bole had apparently become
suspicious. The feared outlaw leader was
not waiting, as Contez had been about to
say. There was the quick sound of horses
plopping their feet in the muddy trail.
Conway saw at least half a dozen riders
appear a hundred yards down the creek.
“They’ll kill you, Contez, when they
find out what happened,” said Conway.
“We’ll have to make a dash for it. Can
you hang onto that beast?”
“I can hang on, senor,'* muttered Con¬
tez. “But if we go back to Brazos now,
Blacky will follow us, or run us down
before we get far. There’s no way—”
"Stick on, Contez 1“ rapped out Con¬
way. “They haven’t identified us yet!
Here we go!”
It was wild, desperate decision. Con¬
way caught up the reins of Contez’s beast,
along with those of the riderless nag. He
drove home the steel in his own horse,
brought it sharply around, and sent the
animal off the trail onto the eutbank.
The creek flood rolled yellow and deep
in the dirty gray light. Conway clung
grimly to the spare reins of the other
horses as his own beast snorted and
sprang off the crumbling bank.
CHAPTER IV
The Outlaw Brand
T HOSE sudden, rippling drops around
Tom Conway’s head were not made
by rain. He came to the surface, swim¬
ming, clinging to the horn of his saddle.
His horse and the others had jumped and
plunged some twenty feet into the deep,
boiling creek.
Conway saw Contez, nearly submerged,
but clinging to his horse. The shock of
the fall had freed the spare reins from
Conway’s hands. But the three horses
had headed directly for the low shore of
the creek, perhaps seventy-five yards
away.
“Good work, Contez,” approved Con¬
way. “Stay down. If they drill your
horse, let him go and grab the other one.”
Conway got at his belt with his free
hand. Bascom’s two guns weighted him
down, but he pulled the belt clear,.hook¬
ing it up over the saddle horn and hoping
a brief immersion would not soak the
cartridges.
He could see the line of outlaws, some
dismounted, at first Bhooting wildly.
Then he heard a bellowed command.
“Hold your fire! Don’t hit them hosses!
We’ll never git at the saddles!”
“Blacky Bole,” grunted Contez. “He’ll
not let us get away, senor. We are the
fools, but you are brave.”
“Hang on!” was Conway’s reply.
"Look! Some of them are riding down
the creek. There’s a low shore there.
They’ll come after us.”
HARP-LUCK HELLER
15
Contez spoke again:
“Go while you have,
the chance, senor!”
horses and dived. When he had
Contez gripped by the collar, he felt
shoaling bottom under his feet. The
three horses were already scrambling
ashore and into a thick mat of willows.
Contez lay gasping, but alive as Con¬
way rounded up the three bewildered ani¬
mals. Their reins had caught, trapping
them and Conway made them fast. He
“It is to be expected,” said Contez, his
voice labored. “If you can make it out,
senor, ride fast and don’t wait. For me
there is no hope.”
Contez’s horse partly rolled then and
Contez lost his hold. Conway chanced
got back to Contez, pulling him into the
concealment of the Willows.
“It is no use, senor,’’ said Contez
weakly. “They are coming and with me
you cannot escape. Take the horses and
go quickly.” Conway grinned, clearing
16
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
Bascom’s two guns of water and reload¬
ing them with cartridges he dried as he
took them from the belt.
It seemed that Contez had spoken the
truth. Five of Blacky Bole’s men were
already in the creek, swimming their
horses across the narrow space where it
was deep. One rider already had his beast
footed on shallows and was turning to¬
ward them.
Conway judged the distance at forty
yards, elevated and triggered one of the
sixes. The leading outlaw yelled, threw
up his hands, and toppled into the shal¬
low water.
Before the second outlaw could gain
footing for his horse, Conway triggered
again. This time it was the horse that
reared up, then rolled over, carrying his
rider under.
Three or four men still on the other
shore began shooting with rifles. Bul¬
lets clipped the willows around Conway.
Gontez spoke again.
"Go, while you have the chance, senior!
You cannot again have such luck.”
Conway’s third and fourth shots
proved that Contez had misnamed his
shooting as luck. Two more horses rolled
and their riders were left to fight the
flood current with frantic hands.
Only one outlaw rider remained cross¬
ing the creek. He had seen enough. He
tried to turn his horse to head back for
the opposite shore. Conway might have
been shooting at one of the flying glass
balls at a rodeo.
"Sucre Dios!” exclaimed Contez. "Nev¬
er, senor, have I seen such shooting.”
That was when Conway’s fifth shot
picked off the clinging rider and spared
the outlaw’s horse to scramble out and
go loping away. There was a hasty con¬
ference across the flooded creek.
A broad figure appeared, waving, and
shouting.
"Rader 1 Bascom! Yuh can’t get away
with that! We’ll hunt yuh down! If you’ll
quit, we’ll cut yuh in big an’ save trou¬
ble!”
C ONWAY did not reply. The sixes
would not carry the distance accu¬
rately.
“Guess we’ll mosey along, Contez,”
said Conway quietly, without replying to
Blacky Bole. “They’ll be some time cross¬
in’. We can cut back up the creek, on
the other side from Brazos, an’ then
figure out what’s best to do.”
“I’ve met some cool hombres, senor,”
said Contez. “Yes, I think we may have
the chance. Blacky is fooled. He doesn’t
yet know Bascom and Rader are dead,
an’ we are two other fellows. Who are
you, senor, if you don’t mind the ques¬
tion?”
“Name’s Conway,” and the drunken
bum of Brazos grinned. "I picked up
some shooting tricks along my past trail.
Mostly now we must find some food an’
a place to hole up.”
"I am trusting you, Senor Conway,”
said Contez. "I am needing the rest and
my arm must be fixed. We will ride quick¬
ly to a place I know. You’re no long
rider, so I’ll tell you that I have been.
But Blacky Bole had ordered my death
because he knew that I would draw the
line at stealing from trusting ranchers
and working with a crooked banker for
his own gain.”
Conway could see now that Contez
had the startling blue eyes and regular
features of Spanish ancestry. He guessed
there must be some deeper story connect¬
ed with Contez’ riding with Blacky’s out¬
laws, but he did not press for that now.
He helped Contez mount, and they
reached higher ground.
T HE ranch line shack was in a con-
yon, according to Contez, who said
they would be able to hide out there for
a few days until he could ride again.
They had followed an unmarked trail,
winding among broken and violently col¬
ored rocks that had given Red Rock
county its name. In two hours, Conway
judged, they must have covered some five
miles.
There had been no indication of pur¬
suit. Conway could see that any posse,
or Blacky Bole’s riders would have had
to guess right in picking any one of a
hundred ways they might have taken.
All at once Conway noticed they had
come out above a sloping bench where
HARD-LUCK HELLER
17
the rocks disappeared and verdant grass
crept up to the edge of the badlands. He
could see wide meadows dotted with cows,
and about half a mile away was the
straight line of a road.
“This line shack belongs to a ranch,
Contez?’’ questioned Conway.
“It’s the Spence rancho replied Con¬
tez, who was holding up, but growing
weaker through loss of blood. “But the
line shack to which we will go has not
been used for a long time. It is there I
have stayed at times, and I have it well
stocked with food.”
Conway’s blood quickened. The Spence
ranch?
"You know they’s been plans made by
Blacky Bole an’ Banker Corley to rob
Spence?” he asked.
“I know, Senor Conway,” said Contez.
“It is for this and other things I have
meant to leave Blacky Bole. I was very
wrong when I became one of his hom-
bres. You see, I had my own rancho once,
and it was burned out in a range war. I
was bitter and revengeful. I did not know
quite what I was doing in my madness.”
Conway was reminded of his own re¬
cent madness, and he could understand.
Somehow though, the memory of a rodeo
gir] who had chosen a wealthier man now
seemed shadowy, something of years ago
instead of but a brief month or so.
What further Contez might have re¬
vealed had to wait. Conway could see a
looming heap of black rocks about a
mile away, which Contez said marked
the entrance to the line shack canyon.
From the broken badlands behind them
and not far away a small band of four
horsemen would burst out. Apparently
they had not yet seen the fugitives, but
Contez had keen eyes.
“They are Blacky’s hombres,” he an¬
nounced. “Leave me, Senor Conway, and
ride—ride hard for the Spence home
ranch. It is down that trail road six or
seven miles.”
"We’re making a stand here,” said
Conway grimly. “At least you will be
safe for a little while in the rocks. If it
fails, I’ll hit out for the Spence place.”
The faint yells of the four riders told
they were seen as Conway got Contez
fixed up in a fissure where he would be
sheltered and difficult to find. He took
Contez’ extra gun with the others.
Suddenly the oncoming riders must
have been puzzled. For they could see
three riderless horses where there had
been two men. The horses were breaking
away, circling around the lower hillside.
Apparently the four outlaws were
made confident. They came down the
graded bench, spurring straight toward
the running animals. They did not see
Conway holding Indian fashion, riding
below the saddle of one of the horses.
The four riders strung out, yelling
as they came, when Conway let go his
hold, landed with a rolling limpness, then
was hunkered behind a rock he had
picked out before he started. Intent upon
the three horses with their laden saddle¬
bags the outlaws cut across, lining them¬
selves within thirty yards of Conway’s
rock
Conway’s first shot rolled the leader
from his saddle. The second outlaw was
hit hard, but clung to his saddle, turning
his horse as his two companions pulled
up short and got their guns belatedly into
action.
Lead scored Conway’s rock now and
kept him down. A glancing bullet cut one
cheek. He came up suddenly, a gun in
each hand. With the same one-two trig¬
gering that had picked cigars from the
teeth of heroic gents in a rodeo arena.
Conway emptied the last two saddles.
C ONWAY stood up, watching the out¬
laws’ horses breaking away. Reins
strung together, his own three horses
had slowed. Aat that moment Conway was
standing fully exposed. His ride had
brought him nearly down to the Spence
ranch road, but he was not looking that
way.
“Put up your hands, or I’ll sure enough
let you have it!”
The voice was vibrant with anger, but
still was like low music. Conway turned
slowly. Scarcely forty feet away in the
trail, slightly below him, was the dark,
pretty girl he had seen in Brazos.
“Margie Spence?"
She was mounted on a roan gelding.
18
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
What was more interesting at this mo¬
ment was the small Winchester repeater
pointed at Conway. He had no doubt
whatever that the girl would let him have
it.
Conway could have ducked and shot
The girl seemed a bit puzzled then
at what to do, but she urged her horse
toward him. Suddenly she stopped, star¬
ing.
“You ? So you’re one of them! Makin’
out you’re a bum to help rob Ralph Cor-
HARD-LUCK HELLER
19
ley’s bank! Walk out an’ catch ap them
horses!”
Conway had to think of Contei lying
np there in the rocks.
He managed some other fast thinking
ail within ten seconds. Of how Corley
had tricked everybody in Brazos. Of how
Corley was framing with Blacky Bole to
rob the Spence ranch safe, using his
friendship with this girl to make the
•rime easier.
Or, and this was worse, would Corley
change his plan and try for the Spence
ranch by hitching up with the deluded
girl?
Under no circumstances did Conway
intend to be taken in as the girl's pris¬
oner and leave Cortez afoot, and an easy
victim to others of Blacky's men or a
posse from town. Moreover, Conway
knew he would have no chance to explain
his own position.
But now his quick mind told him there
was a way to trap this crooked Banker
Corley. And it was upon this thought
that he acted, even as Margie Spence ex¬
claimed, "Walk out, I say, or I'll shoot
you down! Like you killed those men oi
the posse V
She had not known they were Blacky
Bole’s men.
Conway took one stride, his hands still
in the air. But he appeared to stumble
with his next step. His quick fall flat¬
tened him to the ground. One hand moved
too fast to be followed as he snatched
his third gun, taken from Contes, from
inside his shirt.
Margie Spence cried out and the rifle
exploded. But it was a miss, as Conway
was sure it would be. Cenway’s shot
clipped one of the roan’s ears.
The roan snorted with pain, jumped
sideways, and compelled the girl to catch
at the saddle horn, her rifle swinging
wildly. Conway was lying flat on the
ground when the horse shied, but when
the girl had the roan under control, Con¬
way was yards away among the rocks.
Conway kept moving, but halted long
enough to fix the position of one of the
outlaw’s horses still milling about. He
reached the horse with a quick rim that
cornered it near a rocky shelf.
Margie Spence was both game and
mad. She fired the rifle again twioe, but
Conway was low in the saddle and riding
as if he had no intention of stopping this
side of Blacky Bede’s outlaw hideout,
wherever that might be. He deliberately
kept ia view of the girl until he was at
such a distance them seemed no likeli¬
hood of his return.
20
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
When he pulled up, he was in a thin
growth of stunted pine. He still had a
good view of the girl, now half a mile
away.
“There goes my last chance o’ squarin’
myself with Brazos," muttered Conway
grimly. “That Is, unless I can somehow
meet up with Margie Spence again as a
different lookin’ ranny.”
It was evident that the gritty girl
imagined she had had the luck to per¬
form a great service for Banker Corley.
She had called him Ralph.
For Conway watched her round up the
three weary beasts that had been brought
this far by Contez and himself. And
,Margie Spence proved she was smart,
too.
While Conway watched, she trans¬
ferred four of the gold sacks to her own
saddle pockets. Then she slung the
other two sacks together with rope and
laid this across her own saddle.
After which, she pulled the cinches on
the saddles and stripped the bridles
from the three tired and hungry ani¬
mals.
A few minutes later, Conway was be¬
side Contez. The blue eyes of the Mexi¬
can were puzzled, but warm with ap¬
proval.
“The Spence girl was riding out from
Brazos," Conway told Contez. “She has
all of the gold, and she turned back.
Mister, Banker Corley is gonna be one
surprised hombre, an’ he ain’t gonna
like it any too well.”
Contez studied him thoughtfully.
“So, Senor Conway, you think only of
having the gold go back to Corley?”
“I have other ideas,” replied Conway.
“I’ve never known a time when I needed
a shave and other clothes as much as
now.”
CHAPTER V
Human Outlaw Bait
<<'\7'OU’RE a good-looking jigger,
X Senor Conway. Brazos would not
now suspect you were, as you called your¬
self, a drunken bum. It is good that we
are of about one size.”
Contez, his broken arm splinted,
looked upon Tom Conway with approval
in his thoughtful blue eyes. Conway was
a different figure in the nearly new buck¬
skins that Contez had produced in the
line shack.
He rubbed a hand over his smoothly
shaved face, where only the slight scratch
from a bullet remained to mark what he
had been but half an hour before. He was
sure that none in Brazos would ever
identify him with the mooching tramp
who had been thrown out of the Red Ace
saloon.
“But you, Contez?” The rodeo rider
scowled. “One of Blacky Bole’s hombres
got away from me before the girl took
the gold. As soon as he meets up with
the other outlaws, they will take up the
trail almost directly here.”
Contez nodded and smiled gravely.
“You are right, Senor Conway . But
they have had a sample of your miracu¬
lous shooting. They will wait until night
to try following us to this cabin, Senor.
I have one big idea.”
Thereafter Contez talked rapidly for a
few minutes.
“It might work,” admitted Conway.
“But if it fails, Contez, the wolves will
tear you to pieces. I can’t be sure this
Sheriff Sellers has the savvy to under¬
stand, or that he will take the word of a
strange pilgrim.”
“It is worth the chance, Senor Con¬
way.” And Contez spread his hands. “It
is the least I can do. If Sheriff Sellers has
returned to Brazos, you must make sure
that no one knows you have made con¬
tact with him. That means you must wait
for the night, and when Blacky Bole’s
hombree close in on the cabin, the sur¬
prise may be all for them, if the sheriff
is smart."
“But you, Contez? You are hurt. You
can’t put up a fight.”
“If I could think like the fox, I
would not fight,” smiled Contez. “I
have not such brains, but I will use such
as I have.”
When Conway was mounted, having
rested for awhile and fortified himself
with food and drink, he was an erect,
clean-cut figure with piercing gray eyes
in a lean, shaved face.
HARD-LUCK HELLER
21
"Adios, Senor Contez!” and he waved
a hand.
"There is a man,” added Conway un¬
der his breath.
"Adios, Senor Conway, and luck,” said
Contez.
"There goes a man,” added Contez un¬
der his breath.
B RAZOS echoed to celebrating guns
during the afternoon. Conway,
snatching more rest as he waited, con¬
cealed in the mesquite-covered bench
above the town, could read the shouting
voices.
“Pd like to savvy Banker Corley’s
thinking right now,” mused Conway.
•'Margie Spence has given him the gold.
Corley could do no less than make known
its return. But tonight he is supposed
to ride to Blacky Bole’s hideout for a
split on that same gold.”
Conway could well understand that
Margie Spence was receiving the town’s
wild acclaim.
“An’ like as not Corley’s depositors
will be drawing out much of their mon¬
ey,” considered Conway. “It’s possible
that Corley will be forced into making an¬
other play. It’d be a ripe moment to put
himself across with the girl. He’ll maybe
plan it to marry the girl an’ cut in on the
Spence money and ranch.”
Conway considered another angle. Cor¬
ley would be yellow-spined. He would be
in cringing fear of what Blacky Bole
might do. The girl would tell him how
she had come by that bank loot. She would
relate how she had come upon the drunk¬
en bum of the night before.
‘‘An’ she’ll like as not discover the
hombres I had to gun out weren’t of any
town posse,” mused Conway. “The next
thought will be that I was one of Blacky
Bole’s crowd, an’ that I was makin’ a
try to get away with the gold.”
Conway had to map out his campaign
with care. A slip might mean failure,
and he knew he would not last long if
Corley managed to turn the town against
him.
It Was shortly after dark when Con¬
way reached the sheriff’s office in the
jail. He approached it from the rear,
having staked out his horse in a gully
outside the town.
Sheriff Sellers was a grim-mouthed,
aging man, whose years of enforcing the
law in the tough town had made his keen
eyes hard and skeptical. Yet he was a
fair man, and he listened as Conway
talked.
Conway left the jail office by the rear
door, as he had entered.
P ERHAPS half an hour later, Conway
rode into the single street of Brazos.
Again the life of the town centered
around the Red Ace saloon. But bright
kerosene lamps were burning in the bank.
Conway made his first test at the sa¬
loon. He dismounted and tied his horse 1
at the hitch rack, slapped the dust off his
buckskins, and pushed through the bat¬
wing doors.
Many eyes turned toward him with
mild interest, but he ignored the scruti¬
ny. Pete, the half Mext bartender, pushed
a bottle across when Conway laid a gold-
piece on the bar.
There was no hint of recognition. This
stranger with the cool gray eyes could
never have been connected with the
ragged saddle bum who had lost his
horse.
“Reckon yore banker would know of
any loose land that could be bought up?”
remarked Conway.
The bartender’s eyes flickered, but he
nodded.
“Yah, he’s the hombre to see,” he re¬
plied. "Thinkin’ o’ locatin’ hereabouts,
huh?”
“That’s the idea,” said Conway. “Got
dried out on the Panhandle, an’ hear
they’s plenty o’ water down this way.”
"Good, an’ have another drink,” said
the bartender. “Corley’s your man. Had
a bank raid last night from some owl-
hooters. But they split up amongst their-
selves, an’ a gal that Corley’s been spark¬
in’ turned into a shootin’ hellion. Damn’
if she didn’t git back all the gold the owl-
hooters took.”
"So?” drawled Conway.
“Yah, aif yur are for seein’ Corley
right away, you’ll git a look at the gal.
22
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
She’ll be up at the bank. You’d best go in
easy, mister.”
Conway downed a drink, disregarding
the searching eyes that studied him.
“I’ll go in easy,” he grinned. “Like to
meet up with a gal like that.”
The bartender shook his head.
“Do yuh no good," he said. “She’s
staked out. Hope yuh have luck findin’
some graze. It’s a good county.”
Conway had accounted for a visit to
the bank. He desired no suspicion on the
part of any citizen when he made his
call. But his spine tingled as he learned
that Margie Spence was at the bank with
Corley.
As Conway mounted and rode back up
the bank, he saw a group of hard-faced
riders coming down the street. He pulled
aside. The leader wore a badge, and Con¬
way knew he was one of the sheriff’s
deputies. The posse moved in silence, tak¬
ing the trail down the creek.
Sheriff Sellers was not with the posse.
Conway grinned. But his lean face be¬
came grave as the last of the posse
passed him.
“Here’s luck, Contez,” he said sol¬
emnly.
B ANKER CORLEY looked up with a
quick scowl as Conway entered. He
had the appearance of a man who knew
he was sitting on dynamite, with a short
fuse lighted.
Margie Spence turned her shapely fig¬
ure part way in the chair across the desk
from Corley. Her dark eyes took in Con¬
way, surveying him from boots to ’brero,
and lingering a long ten seconds upon the
single gun swinging low on his thigh.
Genway gave her a straight look as
Corley spoke up.
“Yes," said the banker shortly. “If
you’re on business, it’s after hours. I’m
just closin’.”
Conway smiled, but he was watching
the girl. He had a guilty notion that she
was frowning as she gave his face a brief
once-over. It seemed to him her eyes lin¬
gered upon the bullet scratch along his
cheek, but there was no evidence that
she had coupled him with the bearded
renegade killer she had tried to kill.
“A-feared my business won’t wait,”
drawled Conway, appearing not to no¬
tice Corley’s shifting eyes and the fear
that he knew was causing the banker to
clench his hands tightly.
Margie Spence started to rise.
“I’ll be going along over to the hotel,
Ralph,” she said, and in the quick, ap¬
praising look she gave him for the sec¬
ond time, Conway was sure that the girl
was trying to make up her mind about
him.
“Nev’ mind, Margie,” said Corley, and
his tone was sharper. “Whoever you are,
mister, I’m not talkin’ business at this
hour.”
“Too bad, sir,” said Conway quietly.
“I’m wantin’ to know tonight about some
ranch land, say about two thousan’ acres.
Be quite a deal, but maybe they’s oth¬
ers—”
Cupidity almost rode down the suspi¬
cion in Corley’s eyes. He unclenched his
hands, rubbing them.
“Why’n’t say that in the first place,
Mister—?”
“Bascom,” said Conway slowly, delib¬
erately. “Rader Bascom. Maybe so you’d
heard of me.”
Conway could almost see the sweat
pop out on Corley’s forehead, as the
banker let one hand drop below the level
of the desk. But Conway's fingers strayed
carelessly to the butt of his low-slung
gun and Corley brought his hand back
into view.
Conway knew the names must have
hit Corley hard, told him what the girl
could not guess. That his cool visitor had
come from Blacky Bole.
“Yeah—yeah—Margie, I guess I’ll
have to see what I can find for—Mr. Bas¬
com,” stammered Corley. “I’ll see you at
the hotel in a few minutes.”
Conway remained alert, aware that the
girl was leaving with puzzled reluctance.
He knew she was upon the verge of re¬
membering something, possibly that bul¬
let gouge upon his cheek.
Then she said, “Sure, Ralph, I’ll be
waiting.”
Corley’s furtive eyes watched the girl
go out of the door and his look was that
HARD-LUCK HELLER
23
of a man who sees his last hope walking
away.
Conway smiled then, spoke softly.
“Yuh got, it, Corley. I just hitched np
with Blacky Bole, an’ he sent me ’cause
I'd be a stranger to Brazos. Blacky is kind
o’ mad, Corley. Ypah, he’s damn’ mad.*
Corley’s tongue licked at his thin, dry
lips.
“But I didn’t—I eouldn’t help what
happened—I’ll make it up, an’ 1*11 ex¬
plain—*
“Blacky sent word he ain’t waitin’,
Corley,” said Conway relentlessly. “Fig¬
ures yuh had a jasper planted to grab
that gold, an’ he wants it bade pronto.*
Corley was sweating profusely now.
“Good grief!" he groaned. “Can’t
Blacky see I ain’t got ary way to take
that gold now. It bein’ here puts me in
bad enough, and—”
“Blacky thought of all that," eut in
Conway. “I was told to give yuh a way
out, one way, an’ if yuh don’t'take it,
Blacky’s raidin' Brazos before morning.
He’s coming for you, Corley.”
“No—no—he can’t do that—if he
waits—”
Blacky said there was a way, Corley.
He’s wantin’ the combination of that
Spence safe, an’ now. He’s sure yuh got
it, an’ if yuh ain’t, they’ll be no more
dallyin’.”
“But I ain’t—”
“Blacky said that when the gal fetched
you that gold, you’d be able to get it,
Corley. You bein’ the tophand with her."
Conway could read the truth in Cor¬
ley’s eyes. The banker already had that
combination. No doubt he had been fig¬
uring on trying to count Blacky Bole out
and take over the ranch along with Mar¬
gie Spence.
“It’s a bluff, an’ Blacky don’t dare—"
“Blacky won’t like yuh talkin’ that-
•way,” snapped Conway. “He's waitin’
now within gunshot of the town. Waitin'
to hear what yuh have to say. Be said
for you to give me that combination an*
if it’s right he’ll pass up tins business
of the gold. Welir
“I can’t—"
Conway turned his back deliberately.
“If that's the way yuh wont it, Cor¬
ley—”
“No—wait! Yeah, I got it—here oa
this paper—”
Conway’s gun whipped out, was held
steadily. But Corley was bringing out a
slip of paper with figures on it. Conway
readied over, took the paper.
“You’re to stay around until this is
proved up,” he said.
CHAPTER VI
Strange Gunsmohe
C ONWAY stepped from the door of
the bank, swaggering. He saw that
Banker Corley remained crouched behind
his desk. Corley was a frightened man
and Conway wondered what the bank¬
er’s next move might be?
Conway was untying his horse when
Sheriff Sellers stepped into view.
“Hold up a minute there, feHa!’’ hailed
the sheriff.
In response, Conway jerked up his
gun and fired pointblank. His lead
plucked at the sheriff’s shirt sleeve.
But Sheriff Sellers was no slouch with
an iron. The lawman’s gun blasted from
the level of his hip. Conway’s iron flew
from his fingers, slamming onto the plank
walk.
“The next'u will split your gullet!”
rapped out the sheriff. “Git up yore
paws!“
Conway was nursing his gun arm
when the sheriff stalked over to him. He
had an eye cocked on the door of the bank
and he saw the figure of Corley in the
doorway.
The banker stood as if paralysed as
Sheriff Sellers clamped a hard hand upon
Conway’s collar.
“Had an idea yuh wasn’t bein'
watched, huh!” rasped the sheriff. “Yore
mistake, mister, goin’ for yore gun! Now
walk!”
Five minutes later Conway looked out
through the bars of one of the jail’s two
eells. He was listening to tiw voices argu¬
ing in the sheriff’s office.
“I tell yuh I think he’s ooe
ef the
24
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
Blacky Bole crowd!" was Sheriff Sellers’
harsh pronouncement.
“I don't think so," Banker Corley was
speaking in a strained tone. “He’s a
stranger, but he was wantin’ to know
about buyin’ some ranch land. I'm afraid
you made a mistake. Sellers.”
“Then why’d he go for his gun, Cor¬
ley? If I hadn’t drilled his shootin' arm,
he'd have got me. He fanned me with his
first bullet.”
Banker Corley was persistent. Con¬
way could well guess what was in Cor¬
ley’s mind. With Blacky Bole’s messen¬
ger in jail, there was no way the threat¬
ened raid by Blacky could be prevented.
“Lemme talk to him a minute, sher¬
iff,” and Corley was using his normal dic¬
tating tone. “Maybe there’s an explana¬
tion. I’m thinking he didn’t know you
was the law, an’ acted hastily.”
“A'right,” growled the sheriff. “Go on
in an’ talk to him. But don’t get within
his reach.”
The door to the sheriff’s office was
carefully closed by Corley, as he walked
in. The banker came and stood beside
the bars. Conway had his right arm in a
bandana sling.
“Yuh double-crossin’ whelp!” snarled
Conway. “Puttin’ the sheriff on me!
You’ll damn’ well wish yuh hadn’t when
Blacky hears o’ this!”
“Look—I hadn’t anything to do with
it,” said Corley, keeping his voice low.
“I’ll get you out. Give me a hour or so.
I’ll make the sheriff see you're all right.
He owes me—”
The jail office door opened then. Sheriff
Sellers appeared. Margie Spence was be¬
side him, her dark eyes widening as they
took in Corley and the man behind the
bars.
“Ralph! I knew iti I got to thinking,
an’ I know I’m right!” Margie Spence
was hurrying to Corley’s side. “This is
the killer I saw shoot down three men to¬
day, an’ who tried to shoot me when I
stopped him!”
“Suit Margie—he couldn’t be—you’re
mistaken—”
Goriey was mopping at his damp brow.
His hand shook.
Sheriff Sellers stood behind them, his
broad face without much expression,
waiting.
Conway rubbed his left hand over his
bandaged gun arm and muttered an oath.
“Damn yuh, Corley!” he blurted out
then. “Yuh git me out’n here! Yuh
tricked me, an’ had the sheriff shoot me
up! Wait’ll Blacky—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking
about!” exclaimed Corley. “Come on,
Margie. I was fooled, I admit it—”
Conway’s voice dropped to malicious
softness.
“He wasn’t fooled none whatever,
miss,” he said. “He was in with Blacky
Bole on that robbery last night. Maybe
he was tryin’ to cover up stealin' from
the bank—”
“That's too ridiculous to make sense!”
shouted Corley. “The man is an insane
killer! He tried to gun down Sellers!”
“Yuh believe him, Miss Margie?"
asked Gonway quietly.
“Come on, Ralph,” said the girl. “Of
course I believe you.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Conway
quickly. “He was in on stealin’ that gold
though. And he’s scared sick, thinkin'
Blacky Bole is cornin' to get him. He was
to see Blacky tonight an’ get his split,
an’—”
“Let’s go, Ralph!” The girl was furi¬
ously angry. There was no doubt but that
she was for Corley all the way.
“Wait, Miss Margie," said Conway.
“Ask Corley why he gave me the com¬
bination to your father’s safe? Why, if
it wasn't for Blacky Bole, and to keep
Blacky Bole—”
T HE girl turned, held by that, her
dark eyes beginning to show doubt.
“Margie! He’s lying to try and save
himself,” sputtered Corley.
“Miss Margie,” said Conway evenly,
“How about twenty-left, eighteen-right,
seven-left, back to zero—?”
The girl gasped, her curved red lips
straightening to a line of white and her
eyes turning to Corley. But Corley was
quiek. His hand came up and a hide¬
out derringer exploded.
But Gonway’s supposedly wounded
hand had been faster. Smoke shot out
HARD-LUCK HELLER
25
from the bandage on his am. Corley
cursed, half turned, and caught at the
bars to keep his feet.
Conway’s lead from the gun concealed
in the bandanna sling had ripped a fur¬
row from Corley’s wrist to his elbow.
Sheriff Sellers put out a hand that kept
Corley from going down.
“Ralph! Nobody but you knew that
combination.”
Margie Spence looked at the banker
with hurt, disillusioned eyes. Sheriff
Sellers was unlocking the cell door.
“Too bad, Corley,” said the lawman.
“Unlucky for you that yuh didn’t know
that Blacky Bole is right now miles from
here. An’ he’s in a trap he won’t bust
out of this time. Margie, yuh had it right.
This shootin’ jigger here is the same one
that let yuh bring back the bank loot.”
Conway was removing the bandanna
from his am. No wound was revealed.
The sheriff’s gun had been loaded with
blanks when they had clashed in the
street.
B ANKER CORLEY was in the cell
with his smashed am in a real
sling. When the pose rode in, the blue¬
eyed Mexican Contez came into the jail
office.
“I’m givin’ myself up, sheriff,” said
Contez. “You have Senor Conway to
thank for the end of the Blacky Bole out¬
laws.”
"Yeah?” drawled Sheriff Sellers. “I
don't seem to recollect they bein' any re¬
ward notices for a fella of yore descrip¬
tion—say the name is Contez—never
heard o’ it.”
Margie Spence looked from Contez to
Conway. Conway’s eyes smiled at her.
But he spoke to Contez.
“I rode into Brazos lookin’ for a piece
o’ land to take up,” said Conway. “I’ll be
needin’ a pardner that knows cattle rais¬
in’ down here on the border.”
Margie Spence turned slowly, walking
toward the door.
“Just a minute, Miss Margie,” said
Conway. “Yore dad will have to be chang¬
in’ the combination of his safe, seein’ I’m
something of a stranger hereabouts.”
“Yes?” said Margie Spence softly,
pausing and turning toward him. “I sup¬
pose he will.”
“Unless,” added Conway, “it's a secret
that might be kind o’ kept in the family.
Not wantin’ you should think I’m makin’
up my mind too fast, an’ maybe rushin’
my luck.”
Margie was silent for a long minute of
appraisal, then she smiled a little.
“My dad always said a smart man wins
because he plays his luck when it’s run¬
ning his way,” she said quietly. “About
that combination to the safe? I trusted
Ralph Corley up to the minute he asked
me for that. So dad won’t have to change
it. I gave him the wrong figures.”
Conway knew then he was going to
rush his luck until he made sure he had
the smartest wife in Red Rock county.
War Bonds Are
Your Guarantee of
Future Freedom!
RED GOLD
FOR KILLERS
«r-|-lHIS NIGHT I'm heeled to howl
I high! Three long, dry years I’ve
-■» been conservin' a thirst! Step
up, all you gents, an' liquidate the alkali
out’n yore dry gullets!”
A lightning bolt striking from the
glittering prisma of the kerosene chan¬
delier in the High Stakes Saloon could
not have rendered its nondescript cus¬
tomers, from cowpokes to graying pros¬
pectors, more speechless.
“Howlin’ hyenas !** An amazed miner’s
yelp broke the spell. “If it ain’t Scrimpy!
Never thought I’d live to see the day!”
Sinners all, when it came to free liquor,
one and all in the crowded High Stakes
rushed the long bar six deep. It was true.
A lanky, long-haired pilgrim wagged an
untrimmed set of whiskers as he poured
a handful of heavy, reddish dust from a
poke.
“They’s more where that come from!"
By PAUL HANNA
There was a particular method in
the apparent madness of the desert
rat named Scrimpy, when he an¬
nounced his rich gold strike in
front of all those killers. But the
payoff amazed ’em all!
The surprise of death was in the kill¬
er’s eyes, as Scrimpy dropped flat,
shooting again.
Scrimpy’s unprecedented swigging of
the High Stakes’ liquid lightning ap¬
peared to have drowned all caution- None
but a locoed mind would have so reck¬
lessly inspired this boast of what it
seemed might be a red-rich strike.
“Hain’t she be-yut-ee-ful?” questioned
Scrimpy, and with drunken solemnity he
produced a geod-sized specimen of quartz
rock from his shirt, letting it thud upon
the bar. “Nighest thing to a mother lode
that’s ever been seen in Quesado! An’
they ain’t ary human on two hind-legs but
me kin ever find it!”
proclaimed Scrimpy, whose moniker had
been earned by three long years of
miserly hoarding of the scanty gold he
was supposed to have washed from an
unnamed and unmapped creek canyon.
“Slogged away at that danged crick
spring an’ summer an’ fall for nothin’
but beans. An’ then, by hokey, all of a
sudden I dug into a pocket, an’ thar she
was—lookit!”
28
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
Scrimpy licked his tongue along dry
lips and downed another drink.
“No sirree! Been pannin’ that forsaken
Black Butte Canyon ever since I hit
Quesado, an’ ain’t never had no reason to
drive a location stake! They bein’ tons
o’ high-grade where that’n come from,
mebbe so now I’ll stake ’er out an’ file
claim papers when I git time to shag over
to the county seat!”
Many tongues licked suddenly at many
other dry lips. Socres of pairs of avari¬
cious eyes became red-rimmed and specu¬
lative, and a dozen other voices yelled
out the boon of-more free drinks.
Calloused hands passed the heavy
quarts along, as old-timers expertly
weighed the rock and muttered. It was
as good high-grade as Scrimpy claimed.
So streaked with its gold content that it
seemed almost soft to the touch.
A ND this was the awakening greed
which Scrimpy sought to arouse.
In spite of his apparently maudlin boast¬
ing, Scrimpy’s deep-set blue eyes searched
the rows of faces along the bar without
his seeming to do so.
For all his unkempt hair and his un¬
shaven whiskers. Scrimpy was much
younger than most of the rough-and-
ready gents crowding around him. The
whiskey warming his innards was far
from confusing his keenness of observa¬
tion and judgment.
Somewhere in Quesado, more than
likely here and now in the High Stakes
Saloon, was a ruthless killer. Or rather a
boss of killers. A murderer with a rep
that had struck terror throughout the
rich panning creeks and a few gold-
streaked canyons of the Mule Tail Moun¬
tains.
For half a dozen years there had been
strange “accidents” to prospectors work¬
ing rich claims. Cabins had been burned,
with their occupants. Gold panners had
been drowned in shallow creeks.
In a few cases the terror had struck
with bullet and knife.
Three years before a kid prospector
known as Bill Storm had been found
buried in a rock slide where there would
have been no slide without some boosting
with carefully planted powder.
Shortly after the death of Bill Storm,
and the disappearance of all the gold he
must have panned in six months’ work,
Scrimpy had packed into Quesado. He was
not known as Scrimpy at first.
He gave his monicker as plain John
Jones then. He was long-haired then and
lightly bearded. He was three years
longer of hair now, and three years longer
of straggling whiskers.
John Jones arrived with all his worldly
goods diamond-hitched on a long-eared,
moth-eaten burro he called Belshazzar.
Belshazzar was still packing John Jones’s
worldly goods, only he was slightly more
moth-eaten^nd stubborn.
During nearly three years of the open
summer season fo»- gold washing in
the creeks, John Jones disappeared in the
spring and returned in the fall. Only
Belshazzar accompanied him, ond only
Belshazzar shared the secret of whatever
hidden creek John Jones had chosen for
panning.
“Ain’t much more’n a bone-wearin’
livin’ in the Mule Tails,” was John Jones’
complaint each time he came back to
Quesado. “I reckon, though, me an’
Belshazzar kin lead a peaceable life an’
git along on it.”
So each time he returned, John Jones
bought himself just two whiskies, which
he would nurse along for a whole evening
at the High Stakes. After which he would
hole up in a town shack, loafing some in
the saloon, b u t never buying or accepting
another drink.
Thus he became known as “Scrimpy,”
and he was put down as a mildly locoed,
harmless pilgrim wh o like as not had been
kicked in the head by a bronc when he
was a younker.
Until today, and this night. Today
Scrimpy had come plodding into town
after a scant three weeks absence. He
had come driving three laden burros be¬
sides old Belshazzar. He had pointed the
beasts straight to Trump Murdock's bank,
where it soon became known to everybody
that Scrimpy had cached a remarkable
take of dust for safekeeping.
And here was Scrimpy “likkering” up
KED GOLD FOR KILLERS
29
and bragging his head off. He was boast¬
ful about his "strike.” He had good rea¬
son, if the rock he showed was to be had
in any quantity.
There were gun hands itching there in
the High Stakes. That was known to
Scrimpy. There were those there who
would have sent him to boothill without
an after wakeful moment of conscience.
And, Scrimpy knew well enough, there
were those who would have scorched the
soles of his feet, pulled out his fingernails,
notched his ears, if they had been given
the chance, to extract from him the secret
of his "rich-strike” creek.
S CRIMPY could have named nearly all
these gents with free gun hands and
a freer conscience. He was well aware
that he was inviting sudden death, but
he was sure, moreover, that his death
would be put off until he had been trailed
back to his strike.
Outwardly careless of the sudden
wealth he proclaimed, Scrimpy seemed
poorly equipped to look after himself,
either in ability or weapons. One old-
fashioned, single-action Walker-Colt was
hitched too high in a scuffed leather
holster.
That was all the arms Scrimpy dis¬
played. He appeared to be enjoying him¬
self immensely.
“Set ’em up again!” he repeated so
many times that nearly all the reddish
dust of two pokes had gone over the bar.
The ready drinkers would never guess
that Scrimpy was tonight throwing away
part of what it had taken him three long
years of steady back-breaking labor to
produce. That is, the other dust and this
he spent had been saved by the scrimping
that had given him his name.
Neither would the greedy killers of the
High Stakes suspect that the rich high-
grade rock he was showing had come a
few years before from one of the biggest
paying mines of a neighboring State.
His available dust nearly gone, and his
voice thickened to a husky whisper,
Scrimpy was slumped in a chair, his
whiskered face sunk on his breast. Yet
he was acutely observant of three little
groups that hid drawn together to confer
over this situation.
That these three groups were made up
of Quesado’s most ruthless killers Scrim¬
py was fully aware. But he still saw that
none of these hard cases had either a plan
or a boss who would direct their best
move.
"They’re too watchful of each other,
too greedy to get together," thought
Scrimpy. "The bait hasn’t been taken
where I want it to be.”
Trump Murdock, the banker, came in
as Scrimpy watched. He was a big and
hearty man who had openly battled for
law and order in Queeado. Knowing of
Scrimpy’s sudden fortune, and the
amount of dust in his bank, Trump Mur¬
dock scowled with worry as he saw his
latest depositor deep in the fumes of too
much liquor.
The little groups, with lawless designs
upon Scrimpy’s secret strike, hurriedly
found other business as Trump Murdock
sized up their too obvious intentions.
They dispersed as quickly as scared sheep,
some to the bar, others clumping outside.
Murdock put friendly hand upon
Scrimpy’s shoulder.
“Wake up. Scrimpy,” he said. “Time
you was rollin’ in for the night. Reckon
you’d best put up at the Highgrade
House. It’ll be—well, lonesome in that
shack of yours.”
Scrimpy grunted, rubbing grimy knuc¬
kles into his eyes.
"Nope,” he muttered thickly. “Ain’t so
high-toned I’m wantin’ to sleep ’tween
itchy sheets. Gittin’ me an early start
’fore daylight, an’ have to git them
burros packed.”
Murdock shook his head, his eyes ap¬
prehensive.
“Don’t be a fool. Scrimpy,” he advised.
“If what you say is true, you can’t go
shaggin’ back into the Mule Tails alone.
It’d be as much as your life is worth.”
“Hoh I” grunted Scrimpy. "Jest let any
skunk come pesterin’, an’ I’ll trim off his
buttons! Think I can’t take keer o’ my¬
self?”
He fumbled clumsily with the old-
fashioned Colt. He got it clear of leather
before Trump Murdock could reach him.
30
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
The old gun blasted acidentally and with¬
out aim.
Prisms of the chandelier tinkled and
fell. Red Gorman, the tough owner of the
High Stakes, reached Scrimpy in two
strides from the end of the bar and
slapped the gun from his hand.
“If you was in your right mind. I'd
make you pay double for that!” snapped
Gorman. “If you’ve got friendly ideas,
Murdock, take Scrimpy along out, soon
as he signs to pay the damage.”
“I’m goin’,” growled Scrimpy. “I’ll sign
steady course to do it. And he was
chuckling grimly.
“They ain’t any of ’em gettin’ out o’
sight of the others long enough to make
a break here in town," mused Scrimpy.
“An’ even when they git together, an’
the boss killer shapes it up, I ain’t in ary
danger this side o’ the creek that gold
come out of.”
O LD BELSHAZZAR wagged his long
ears as Scrimpy pulled a tight hitch
on a new pack of supplies.
a paper, an' MuraocK can pay yuh to¬
morrow.”
Outside, Trump Murdock still had
anxiety in his voice. No doubt he could
see the shifting shadows decorating some
of the corners along the false-fronted
store buildings.
“You come along to the hotel. Scrimpy,”
said Murdock persuasively. “Marshal
Long’s out of town, an’ anything might
happen.”
“Nope,” said Scrimpy, stubbornly, and
shook off Murdock’s hand. “Packin’ out,
I am. Shaggin’ ’fore daylight.”
He left Murdock looking after him and
shaking his head.
Scrimpy made his shack without being
molested. He had set a zigzagging, un-
BED GOLD FOR KILLERS
31
“You wouldn’t know it, you ol’ coot,”
said Scrimpy. “But you an’ me are goin’
in for the last time. Wouldn’t them gold-
crazy rannies be su’prised to know they
ain’t a single, solitary washin’ o’ dust left
in Afternoon Creek?”
Belshazzar peeled back his long lip and
brayed raucously, as if he fully under¬
stood the joke implied.
“No, sirree, Belshazzar, they ain't
The tough saloonmun reached Scrimpy
in two strides, and slapped the gun
from his hand.
nothin’ in that canyon, not even a patch
\ o’ water greens.” Scrimpy laughed softly.
"But by this time, the boss killer that’s
responsible for Bill bein’ found in that
rock, slide is roddin’ his best trailers to¬
gether, an’ waitin’ for me to start.”
Scrimpy had another thought then,
one that had come to him before.
“It bein’ one o’ the richest strikes
Quesado ever seen, like as not the boss
won’t be takin’ more’n one or two gunnies
to share in locatin’ claims on the creek,”
he told Belshazzar. “He’ll be knowin’
there’ll be a rush, but he’ll want to make
sure he’s on the inside ahead of the
others.
“Reckon that part about me never
havin’ to drive stakes for location, an’
32
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
not havin’ registered the claim, will do
the business.”
While there was humor in Scrimpy
over his hoax that he had been three years
contriving, there was also a set grimness
across the broad, firm mouth under his
whiskers.
“We’ll give ’em plenty o’ time to find
out they've been decoyed to a dry wash
on a worked-out creek,” muttered Scrim¬
py. “An’ then, the rannies that’s trusted
by the boss are goin’ to know all the
reasons why they are stuck for their few
remainin’ days, buried in Afternoon
Canyon. Yup, Belshazzar, we’ll be lettin’
’em know.”
Scrimpy gave every evidence of a pil¬
grim with a bad taste in his mouth and
wobbly pins as he clumped alongside
Belshazzar and turned straight across the
barrens west of town, heading toward the
thirty-mile stretch of Furnace Flats.
None but weathered and toughened pros¬
pectors ever took that straight trail to¬
ward the Mule Tail range and the Black
Butte which concealed the hitherto un¬
mapped canyon Scrimpy had named Aft¬
ernoon Creek Canyon.
In the early morning, before the sun
started scorching the red sandstone and
alkali of Furnace Flats, Scrimpy could
detect the faint but unmistakable sounds
of those who had elected to follow him.
But as he entered the baking desert at
daylight, he figured his trailers would
drop back and depend upon his plain sign.
B EING much more fortified with water
in canvas bags, than would be sus¬
pected, Scrimpy waited until the sun
radiated breath-taking heat from the
crouching dunes before he struck off at
an odd angle over a mile strip of flinty
rock on which no sign would be left.
“Have to make ’em believe I’m doin’
my best to throw ’em off,” he confided to
old Belshazzar. “They'll be burnin’ with
thirst ’fore we reach the first waterhole.
An’ it’ll have to look like an accident
that they can pick up our sign again.”
Only once did the gold-hungry hard
cases following approach near enough for
their white cloud of dust to be seen. Then
Scrimpy doubled a mile on his own trail,
and took an abrupt angle northward.
He was sure that the best desert rats
among the killers could not find his sign
now. Then it was that he halted old
Belshazzar and loosened the pack hitch.
After he made it appear as if the ropes
had come undone and Belshazzar had
bolted, with the pack tie stringing.
Scrimpy emptied a waterbag in a rock
hollow.
“Drink your belly full, Belshazzar,” he
ordered. “You an' me has reached the
partin’ of the ways. You’re goin’ back to
good graze. Yon'll take it the shortest
way, and there’s dust where you’ll leave
a new sign for them to pick up.”
He slapped the old burro s rump and
watched Belshazzar go braying back to¬
ward Quesado, along the edge of Furnace
Flats.
When Scrimpy took up his march with
the remaining three burros, he knew his
plain sign would be left all the way for
those who were coming with greed and
murder in their hearts.
“But it’s two lays from here for me,
knowin’ the trail, an’ two an’ a half days
for them, havin’ to go easy not to lose
sign,” said Scrimpy with confidence.
The going cooled as the blue ridges of
the Mule Tail Mountains came nearer.
Waterholes were far apart, but frequent
enough. Scrimpy doubted that any other
haman had ever taken this trail toward
the looming loneness of high Black Butte.
Because of his own grieved wandering
three years before, he had come upon the
canyon of Afternoon Creek, a stream that
carried water only during the hours when
top snow wa3 melting under an afternoon
sun high on Black Butte.
S CRIMPY was nearing the high rim of
Black Butte near the end of the
second day after Furnace Flats. He could
see the narrow gap of volcanic rock which
formed the only entrance to Afternoon
Creek and the canyon of barren rocks in¬
side sheer, unscalable walls.
“I'll be in time to make sure the powder
kept dry and the long fuse hasn’t been
bothered by prowling varmints," said
RED GOLD FOR KILLERS
33
Scrimpy, as he was in the welcome shade
of the mile-high rim. “Now if—”
Then, his senses keened to sound,
Scrimpy climbed a rocky ridge and sight¬
ed back along his trail. He had heard the
faint, floating echoes of steel shoes clink¬
ing on stone.
He swore to himself now as h saw the
moving specks far back. The gold-greedy
killers were hours ahead of where they
should have been. Within the hour, they
would reach the spot where Scrimpy now
stood.
“An’ that means I'll have to work fast,"
muttered Scrimpy. “It ain’* possible to
climb to the powder, then get back down
an’ up the creek as I’d intended.”
For Scrimpy had timed his future
movements, as. he had hoped, to give him
a chance tOssee and know the boss mur¬
derer, and to make himself known. He
judged he might make it that way if he
hurried.
He wa3 driving the three burros into
the gap, pushing them along. There was
a sudden, hollow booming sound from in¬
side the canyon.
Scrimpy instinctively halted and
ducked, his eyes going upward. Had
something happened to set off the powder
trap he had arranged? He expected to
see the wall of loose rock above him come
bulging outward, then fall into the gap.
To his surprise, the wall remained in¬
tact. Yet he knew that hollow booming
had been a blast. It was inside the canyon.
In the canyon where he had worked out
every bar and hole of the vagrant After¬
noon Creek.
“Now what the Sam Hill?” he grum¬
bled. “Plague take it! You’d think that
yarn 1 built around that high-grade
quartz I brought from Colorado had some¬
thin’ to it. What in thunder—?”
There was another explosion. But this
was a crackling shot. A rifle bullet, slant¬
ing downward, skimmed viciously along
the wall, too close to Scrimpy to be com¬
forting.
Scrimpy dropped, yelling at the burros
to drive them out ofrange. He was look¬
ing up toward a narrow shelf than ran
along the gap some fifty yards above the
trail. Back of that shelf he had planted
his own powder, giving it a long fuse
that could be lighted from the creek level
inside the canyon.
The rifle cracked again. This time the
bullet spanged into the wall a few feet
from Scrimpy’s face. He looked up and
the sun, shining into the gap, •showed the
bound, bright hair and the white face of
a girl.
Scrimpy didn’t quite believe it. He
thought his hangover from the night in
Quesado was still with him. Then a
musical voice dispelled any idea of an
illusion.
“Turn around and go back, stranger,
or I won’t miss the next time! This is
a private claim, an’ nobody’s welcome
here!”
Although his audible oaths were
uttered for only his own ears. Scrimpy
was profanely conscious that his position
was untenable. The bright-haired lady
with the rifle had him over her sights any
way he might move.
Nevertheless, Scrimpy thought they
could palaver over this unexpected situ¬
ation.
“Whadda yuh think you’re tryin’ to
do?” he called out. “This canyon an’ ail
that’s in it are my claim by right of dis¬
covery an’ workin’ it! Besides, you’re
liken to git yourself blowed galley west
if you don’t git off’n that shelf!”
The miss with the promiscuous rifle
was unimpressed.
“Turn about an’ shag out ’fore I shoot
to kill!” was the girl's echoing reply.
“Did you see that posted stake beyond
the gap - ' If not, you have a look-see!”
S CRIMPY scrooched cautiously along
the wall, abandoning his three burros
and moving to thn outer edge of the gap.
He read with mixed feelings a crudely
lettered sign on a flat board, staked on
a mound of rocks.
ROWEL RUFFER CLAIM
AL AN SUNDREE NOTEEFIDE THIS
CANYON IS CLOSED TO TRESPASSERS.
AL RITES HEARBY ARE STAKED
ROWEL RUFFER & SAL RUFFER.
34
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
Scrimpy removed his old hat, scratch¬
ing his thickly thatched head.
“If that ain’t the beatin’est steal,” he
grunted.
There was a flurry of dust from a
running horse. Scrimpy turned, hand go¬
ing to his old gun. But his hand dropped
when he saV a lone rider arriving at a
fast clip.
Big Trump Murdock, his broad face
all a worried scowl, slid from the saddle.
Trump Murdock cast an anxious look
toward nearby humps of broken rocks.
He was breathing deep and hard, and he
had two guns cross-belted around his
middle.
“Scrimpy, you danged fool!” he sang
out. “You’ve been trailed right to here,
an’ they’s half a dozen of Quesado’s
toughest killers ridin’ down upon you!
That’s what comes of you not stakin’ out
your claim or filin’ it accordin’ to law!”
Murdock was t ;ading his nag behind a
rocky shelter, as if he had come to side
Scrimpy in any ruckus that might break.
Scrimpy smilea grimly.
“Knowed they was cornin’, Murdock.”
He nodded. “Figured on gittin’ inside to
stand ’em off!”
Murdock took a long breath of relief.
“Then let’s mosey along,” he suggested.
“Tell you what, Scrimpy. You need help,
an’ I’ll throw in with you. Whassay we
slap up claim stakes an’ I’ll see the gold
strike is legally filed for you an’ me?”
Trump Murdock had been friendly.
Scrimpy, however, was quick to see how
the banker stood to come out ahead by
putting in with him Knowing tne creek
was worked out, he judged he might as
well put Murdock wise to the whole deal.
He glanced up at the shelf above the
canyon trail in the gap. The sun was still
reflected from metal and from bright
hair. Due to the walls. Scrimpy knew their
voices were carrying distinctly to the
girl with the careless rifle.
“Sounds good, Murdock, only—” he
began.
A muffled, rolling blast came from the
inner canyon. The explosion whirled Mur¬
dock about, brought a puzzled question
to his eyes, and then an oath to his lips.
“Whafs this, Scrimpy?” His tone had
changed to an angry edge.
And in those three harsh words
Scrimpy had the answer he had been
seeking for three long years. Trump Mur¬
dock was the boss of the gold-claim
killers! His presence here alone was no
more than one of his clever tricks, a move
to handle Scrimpy, get the supposed rich
claim staked, her probably dispose of
Scrimpy by the accident method that had
been in use for half a dozen years.
“Well?” aemanded Murdock. “Who’s in
there blastin’?”
S CRIMPY’S mind was working fast..
He glanced; over at the claim-notice
board which Murdock had not yet spotted.
“Reckon that’s my pardner on the
claim,” he lied glibly. “Yup! Seein’ yuh.
are int’rested in my well-bein’,. I was
tellin’ only so much as I wanted in
Quesado. Y’see my name ain’t John Jones,
an’ it ain’t Scrimpy. I’m Rowel Ruffer,
I am, an’—”
Murdock had followed Scrimpy’s gaze
and had read the crudely posted sign. All
pretense faded from Murdock’s face and
his eyes narrowed.
“Smart, ain’t you?” snarled Murdock,
and his hand slid into the front of his
shirt. “But seein’ you an’ whoever you’ve
took as a pardner ain’t filed, me an’ the
boys will take care o’ that—”
Murdock’s hand whipped out with a
sneak derringer. But he was a mite slower
than Scrimpy, whose hand had flipped up
and out of his collar. He likewise showed
a hide-out derringer, and the two deadly
little weapons crossed each other, but
Scrimpy’s gun was first to explode.
However, Murdock’s hara scowl
changed to a hard grin as Scrimpy took
a bone-breaking chunk of lead near the
elbow of his gun arm. Scrimpy’s bullet
went wide and four Quesado gunnies
sprang from different points of shelter,
converging upon Scrimpy with drawn
guns.
Scrimpy had been partly turned by the
impact of the lead from behind. His der¬
ringer fell to the ground and Murdock
laughed harshly, keeping his own weapon
centered upon Scrimpy’s midriff.
RED GOLD FOR KILLERS
35
“You’re slow to catch on. Scrimpy,”
rapped out Murdock. “We ain’t aimin' to
kill you if you’re reasonable. I've brought
papers along, an’ all you have to do is
make over all rights an’ title to this claim
to the luesado Bank, which is me.”
Scrimpy cocked an eye toward the shelf
in the gap, but he could no longer see the
girl with the rifle. He thought, sickly,
that perhaps she had fled, probably to
summon this Rowel Ruffer who might
be her father or her man.
“Won't do you do good, Murdock, if I
do sign,” said Scrimpy steadily nursing
his shattered arm. "Told you I have a
pardner.”
Murdock’s mouth thinned to a deadly
line.
“No use, boss,” growled one of his men.
“Might as well put him away, an’ then
go git that other fella we didn’t know
about.”
“Yeah!" spat out Murdock and this
time his hand came up with the der¬
ringer, with a look in his eyes that told
of but one intent.
Scrimpy knew he did not have a ghost
of a chance against the gunnies, but here
was the boss killer the murderer who
had ordered the killing of his younger
brother, Bill Storm.
Murdock’s weapon spat vicious flame,
but it was not fast enough. No one had
ever suspected Scrimpy of gun-slinging.
Yet his other hand filled with the old
Walker-Colt in a blurring movement,
and the gun blasted a split second ahead
of Murdock’s derringer.
The surprise of death was in Murdock’s
eyes, caused by lead driven through his
teeth and into his skull. Then Scrimpy
dropped flat, twisting, and doubling one
of the gunnies over his own punctured
stomach with a second shot.
Three other killers were shocked into,
a three-second delay in shooting. But then
lead scored the ground and batted into
the lanky body of Scrimpy.
Scrimpy realized it was his own blood
putting that salty taste into his mouth
and choking him. The three surviving
gunnies were wavering phantom figures
that danced through a shifting haze over
Scrimpy's eyes.
He tried to lift the old Colt, but it
suddenly weighed down his hands and he
had no strength to trigger or thumb the
hammer. He still had a certain satis¬
faction of a completed chore, however.
“Got the boss man, Bill,” he said
thickly. “Knowed I’d bring him in the
open and—”
He closed his eyes because their vision
was lost anyway. If he had a conscious
hope, it was that the next lead would be
downright quick and final.
The sudden shooting he heard, however,
brought no more numbing jolts. The
cursing voices sounded like those of men
afraid rather than triumphant over their
skill.
His eyes opened and he could see
faintly. Only one of Murdock’s gunnies
was on-his feet and he was backtracking
toward the nearest hump of rocks. He
failed to reach the shelter, for there was
a vicious gun sound and that last gunnie
went sliding on his face.
Scrimpy lost all interest then in the
miracle.
«''-pELL YUH, Sally, he looks right
A chipper since yuh cut his hair
an’ shaved his whiskers to fix his busted
jaw,” drawled a cheerful voice. “Danged
funny what a diff’runce a mess o’ hair
makes in a man’s looks. Looks like he'll
make the grade after all.”
Scrimpy could open but one eye, and
he did. There was an oldster who had
whiskers of his own and sharp blue eyes
set in a mass of wrinkles.
“Yes, dad, I reckon he’ll live.” This
voice was low and soft and feminine.
“From the way he’s been talkin’ out of
his mind, he has the rightful claim to
what you chanced on when you found
that powder set in the gap an’ started
experimentin’ along the creek.”
Scrimpy woke up then, painfully, and
all over. His hand went to the smoothly
shaved jaw on one side, and touched a
tight bandage on the other side of his
face.
He could see brown eyes that were
widely spaced and filled with sudden con¬
cern as he tried to grin, but couldn’t. It
didn’t seem nowise possible that a girl
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
with such a white, high-grade face and
such quick sympathy in her voice could
have been the one who finished off Trump
Murdock’s claim-jumping gun- lingers.
He guessed it was so when she said:
“Lie quiet, Mr. Storm. You won’t be able
to move for some time. The doctor from
Quesado says it will be most a month.”
"Doctor? Mr. Storm—?” Scrimpy was
talking from the unbandaged corner of
his mouth.
“Yup, young fella,” said the oldster.
"Ytth had a tough pull, but the least we
could do was stick by yuh after yuh
prob’ly saved our skins from them claim
jumpers. Speakin’ o’ that, Storm, as your
papers say yuh are—reckon me an’ Sal
is likewise guilty o’ jumpin’ yore claim,
an’ we’ll be turnin’ it back to yuh as soon
as yuh kin take over the same.”
"My claim?” Scrimpy guessed they
didn’t understand. "You mean this After¬
noon Crick? Mister, she’s plumb worked
out. Maybe you heard o’ me braggin’ of
a strike in Quesado?”
"Worked out, huh?” The oldster bit a
corner off a plug of tobacco and chewed
on it. “Nope. Didn’t hear nothin’ of yuh
braggin’ in Quesado. I was prospectin’
an’ come onto a mess o’ powder yuh had
cached up on the side of the canyon gap.
Got to monkeyin’ ar’ used it to bust open
the wall what the crick comes out of.”
S CRIMPY tried to lift his head, but
his neck seemed to have too many
kinks in it. The girl’s cool hand was
slipped behind his ears as she supported
him.
"Dad’s trying to tell you, Mr. Storm,
that he came onto a vein of high-grade
ore when he blasted,” she said. “It’s like
as not what’s been feedin washings into
the creek holes, where the doctor said
you’d been pannin’ for three years. The
vein’s awful rich, and dad went to the
county seat and filed on it in your name.”
Scrimpy was trying to figure the pass¬
ing of time.
"Sounds as if I’ve been sleepin’ a
couple o’ days,” he murmured. “Long
enough to be hungry as a snowbound
coyote.”
"A couple of days?” The girl laughed
then, merrily. "Mr. Storm, you’ve been
unconscious for more than three weeks.
Dad’s been digging out some of the
quartz, and he’s had it assayed. It is
what dad’s always dreamed about, and
you’re lucky, ’cause it’s all centered at
the head of the creek so there won’t be
any use for others trying to stake out
workings.”
Scrimpy was silent as he pondered up¬
on all this.
“What d’you mean I'm lucky ?” he said
slowly at last. “That powder was meant
to trap a murderer, an’ it done so, but
not quite like I figured it. I ain’t takin’
what I'd given up, after bein’ too blind
to find it. So—look, it’s your strike—”
Scrimpy wondered what he really
looked like without all his hair and
whiskers, as the girl was shaking her
head.
“I mean, I’ll be needin’ help,” said
Scrimpy. “Nope, that ain’t the way o’ it.
I mean your dad will be needin’ help to
work this find, an’ soon as I git on my
feet, maybe—”
“Yuh don’t owe us nothin’. Storm,”
interrupted the oldster. “As soon as yuh
git on yore pins, I allow to be moseyin’
along.”
Scrimpy appeared to consider this.
“I reckon if the doc says it’ll be a
month ’fore I’m able to be around, that’ll
be long enough,” he said, as if talking
to himself. “Yeah, a month’ll have to do
it.”
The girl’s brown eyes were filled with
suspicion.
“A month will be enough for what?”
she said softly.
“To make yuh see we’ll have to be
hitched proper ’fore your dad shags off
an’ leaves you here alone with me,” said
Scrimp. “If one month won’t do it. I’ll
be off my feet for two months. An’ if—”
“Yeah,” drawled the oldster, matching
Scrimp’s grin. “I kin see now why yuh
worked and waited three years to git the
man yuh wanted. I allow, Sal, you might
as well give up now.”
“I’ll do no such a thing,” declared the
girl. “Somebody might ask me what I
think, anyway ? I'll not be stampeded . ..
well . . . not for at least one month.”
ISLE OF HAPPY MARRIAGES
37
Isle of Happy Marriages
A LTHOUGH some of four hundred
tiny islands of the San Bias group
* are located only a mile from the
mainland of the Isthmus of Panama, a
world hot-spot, there seems little likeli¬
hood that the bizarre customs of the San
Bias Indians will be disrupted by war.
Certainly, no sea invader in his right
mind would brave the treacherous reefs
that surround the Archipelago de las
Midatas, official name of the island group.
It appears that customs will continue
as usual among those foremost isola¬
tionists, the San Bias Indians, particular¬
ly the marriage custom, which explorers
and scientists, prior to the war, wrote
about considerably.
They marry young in San Bias. Usually
a girl is fourteen or less and, since ma¬
turity is attained early in tropical cli¬
mates, it is usually less.
But dignity? It’s paramount. Marriage
seems to be a lot more sacred among
these supposed “savages” than it is in
lots of places. Reno wouldn’t last long
among the San Bias chiefs. Their mar¬
riages are made to stick, and preparation
starts early toward that end.
In each inhabited village of the four
hundred islands of sand and palm stands
the “maiden’s house,” a rude native
dwelling. When a girl reaches puberty
she is brought here and, for four days,
must lie around as the women of the
village take turns pouring water on her.
This moist treatment is popularly sup¬
posed to cleanse the maiden and harden
her for the trials and tribulations of
marriage. After this, her hair is cropped
short, the official notice that she has
reached womanhood.
Then the parents of the girl step in.
If you think American society girls have
glittering coming-out parties, you should
visit a San Bias debutante shindig. There
is no champagne, but guests are served
Chicha, made of cane juice, corn, plantain,
and water. When fermented, it packs an
awful wallop, so the happy bridegroom
can be forgiven should he start singing,
“You Ferment for Me, I Ferment for
You.”
T HE most surprising element in their
marriage customs is the subjective
role of the young man, who does not have
the chance to propose. That is due to the
three-day coming-out party. The guests
are adorned in colorful attire and those
musically inclined bring flutes. The
women of the tribe present to the new
member of their femme fraternity,
clothes, rings, gadgets, and other sundries.
At the close of the festive party, the
girl is permitted to tell her parents which
boy she prefers to marry. The proud
father thereupon goes to the boy’s home
with the glad tidings, thus sparing his
daughter the ordeal of having to be coy,
or of scheming in encouraging a young
man into a proposal.
When at last the details are settled and
the time of the marriage ceremony is
agreed upon, the young lady is placed in
a strong hammock. Her attendants swing
her to and fro, while awaiting the arrival
of the lucky man, who at this time is
en route to the bride’s house. He is carried
bodily, an old San Bias custom, and on
his arrival is dumped ceremoniously into
the hammock with the girl.
According to custom, the bridegroom
is expected to jump out of the hammock
and run away only to be brought back
again by his friends. This is done three
times, then it is customary for him to
stay in the hammock.
If, however, the young man vamooses
more than the allotted three times, and
does not allow himself to be caught, his
act is regarded as jilting the young lady.
She must return to the home nest and try
again. However, this doesn’t let the
fugitive off too easily. He must marry
some other maiden in the near future.
There are no old maids or bachelors
among the San Bias Indians.
Incidentally, among the San Bias, a
daughter is considered infinitely more
important than a son! When a daughter
is born to a woman, she alone and unaided,
must enter a sacred hut. It is the signal
for great rejoicing. The father can then
set up his own establishment and be
independent of his own father-in-law!
DUDE GIRL’S
Salty Milt Saner sure didn't want any fortune-hunter marryin'
his daughter and thereby harvestin’ all the fruits of Milt’s
life work. So Milt plumb up and figured out a plan—and it
turned out to have more surprises than a porcupine has
quills, with results danged near as pricklyl
~T~ OU drive the whole two thou-
san’ o’ the market beef into the
Slash. You won’t need more’n
the half dozen riders you can trust,
’cause you’ll all be ridin’ drag after the
dogies hit the gap into the badlands—”
Old Milt Saner clicked his hard, yel¬
lowed teeth over this crazy speech like
any man with anger churning his in¬
nards.
“An’ when you turn back, you light the
fuse I got planted in the powder under
the diversion dam. She’ll blow hell, west,
and crooked, an’ let Wildcat creek take
its nacheral course tother side o’ Porcu¬
pine ridge—”
DESPERADO
By LARRY DUNN
Judd Lake, ramrod of the Bar-Q,
couldn’t keep his long jaw from drop¬
ping. His mouth sagged open and "he
stared wordlessly at the Bar-Q owner,
as one would look at any man who has
gone plumb out of his mind. He glanced
hastily at the windows of the orderly
bunkhouse, hoping none of the riders
had heard Milt Sanefs locoed order.
“If She’d come back from that dang-
apangled, prissy school with only half
a brain in her head, or with a few wild,
The dude’s ankle hold sent old : MiU
into an acrobatic backtoard somersault.
harum-scarum scrapes she’d got into,
or maybe some high-flown, Eastern cuss
words, it’d be bearable,” rambled Milt
Saner, pulling at the ends of his gray,
drooping mustache. “To the contrariwise,
she’s got her nose pointed up; Bhe wears
perfumery day an’ night; she rides
around in skimpy duds that's a shame to
the nation; an’ she calls that short-skirt¬
ed postage stamp she straddles a saddle
—an English ridin’ saddle—’
Judd Lake had guessed the why of old
40
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
Milt’s addle-brained order about herd¬
ing the Pall gather of prime beef into
the badlands, and his cracked notion
about blowing up the dam that had made
the Bar-Q the richest spread in Pecos
Valley.
T [) Judd Lake’s way of looking at it,
the object of old Milt's outburst was
the neatest filly ever to ride the valley
range. That hard-bitten Milt Saner
would take slowly to Glory’s four years’
accumulation of Eastern learning and
foreign ways was to be expected.
“Ain’t you bein’ a mite, jest a mite
hotheaded, Milt?” questioned Judd with
a placating grin, having rodded the Bar-Q
for Saner from the time Glory was a
yellow-headed tomboy who had tried to
ride every calf she could catch. “I know
you don’t cotton to this dude, Charles
Woodley-Wharton, but makin’ a bluff at
havin’ trouble on the Bar-Q ain’t ary
way to change a gal’s mind, an’ how in
time do you think we’ll git all that beef
rounded up in the badlands in time to
make the market drive in two weeks?
How’s about that one, Milt?”
Judd Lake lowered his voice during
the last of this unusually long speech.
He thought he saw a shadow pass a
bunkhouse window.
Old Milt glared at his stocky, rusty-
headed foreman. His voice boomed even
louder.
“I ain’t mentioned nothin’ bout round¬
in’ up that beef again! You ain’t doin’ so
neither! What’s been rustled an’ is gone,
is gone! You’ll do some sky-shootin’ up
in the Slash, an’ then you’ll come high-
tailin’ back to report that a—that the—
the Black Ghost—yupp, Black Ghost’s
as good a name as any—that the Black
Ghost has raided the holdin’ meadow an’
run off the last hide an’ hair of our mar¬
ket drive!”
Judd Lake surveyed old Milt’s gaunt,
weathered figure and face with growing
concern.
“Maybe so this August heat’s been too
much. Milt,” he said sadly. “You ain’t
been sleepin’ an’ eatin’ right, have you ?”
“Thunderation, Judd! How the devil
could any man eat or sleep with a dude
what parts his name in the middle, hon¬
in’ to grab off what I’ve been twenty-
eight years buildin’ up? Him befuddlin’
a soft-headed gal ’cause he puts on a
boiled shirt for supper, an’ calls it din¬
ner, an’ rides around every day all slicked
up in funny pants—”
“Hold up your loop, Milt,” cautioned
Judd Lake. “We know this Woodley-
Wharton might be likin’ to join up his
shoe-string, blooded hoss ranch with
the Bar-Q money, an’ Glory’s in a fair
way to be some blinded to his real idea,
but he’s downright certain to see through
you runnin’ a ranny an’ makin’ out the
Bar-Q goin’ bust.”
Old Milt groaned deeply. He clamped
his hard teeth together.
“I ain’t makin’ out like the Bar-Q is
goin’ bust,” he stated grimly. “The Bar-Q
is goin’ bust—flat—dodrotted, down¬
right, all the way broke, an’ sold out by
Lafe Skinner for the mortgage note them
beef cows would have paid off. The San-
ers, meanin’ me an’ the daughter that’s
turned out a hifalutin’, no-account, half-
dressed, uppity baggage, is startin’ all
over again, from scratch.
“An’ you watch this slick, double-mon-
ickered dude drop Glory so fast it’ll may¬
be give her a spoonful of sense.”
J UDD LAKE surmised he might have
been wrong. There was now no shad¬
ow at the bunkhouse window. He was
glad no one had heard old Milt Saner’s
hare-brained speech.
Moreover, Judd had known old Milt
too long to argue with him further. The
order he had been given, ancf old Milt’s
crazy idea were the result of a mad de¬
termination that had been growing upon
old Milt for many weeks.
And when Milt Saner made up his
mind, Judd Lake had never seen the man
who was big enough or smart enough to
change it. If old Milt said he intended
to bust the Bar-Q, then the Bar-Q would
be busted.
But Judd made one more try.
“Em knowin’ this dude hoss rancher
ain’t heeled enough to know where he’ll
buy next Winter’s beans,” he said. “He’s
a plain out an’ out fortune-hunter. But
DUDE GIRL’S DESPERADO
41
couldn’t we—ain’t it jest as easy to drive
that beef into a canyon pocket, an’ sell
it off after Woodley-Wharton has pulled
in his horns?”
“You’re doin’ it liken I said!” snapped
old Milt. “You’ll drift them cows, an’
come back with some showin’ as to how
this—this Black Ghost, say a rider in
a black hood headin' his owlhoots,
choused the beef through the Slash. You
blow the dam, an’ it’ll look like this Black
Ghost was in cahoots with some hombre
who's wantin’ Wildcat creek to turn the
valley over Porcupine ridge into grazin'
range.”
“If that's the way you want it, Milt,”
acquiesced Judd finally and mournfully.
"An’ there comes Glory an’ the dude
now. Y'mean the powder is set at the
dam, an’ we're to make the drive this
evenin’?”
“The powder’s set,” said old Milt with
a tight mouth. “You drive the beef this
evening. Do some sheotin', but say you
was surprised an’ overcome, so’s nobody
will be hurt. Understand?”
Judd Lake clumped from the bunk-
house on his bowlegs.
Judd never had expected to see the day
when he would do anything to blotch the
good name of the Bar-Q. He was not
given to any kind of double deal, but
he had taken old Milt’s orders too long
to utter a flat refusal.
“If we can drive that beef into some
holding poeket outside the Slash where
the cows can feed, maybe old Milt will
cool off in a few days,” was Judd’s last
hope and thought at this minute.
G LORY'S eastern riding togs and her
“postage stamp” saddle contrib¬
uted to as delectable an eyeful of sweetly
fashioned womanhood as had ever ridden
the Pecos Valley range. Her bound hair
was still a golden yellow, and her piquant
face was tanned to match the warm tints
of the coiled braids.
“Ah, there you are, father!” hailed the
girl in a tone that had been like rubbing
sandspurs into old Milt’s ears. “Would
it be too much to have Ching Lo prepare
a special strawberry pie for dinner? I’ve
invited Charles to stay and I have been
praising Ching Lo’s cooking.”
“She has, indeed, Mr. Saner,” nodded
the pale-faced dude in the fancy pants.
“You are most fortunate in having such
a chef. I was unable to induce Walters—”
Old Milt’s sharply bitten words were
not of the kind to greet a welcome guest.
They were not even printable.
Old Milt finished with, “Have Ching
Lo fix up ary mess you can think up. If
you’ll be excusin’ me, Mister Woodley-
Wharton, I’ve got to mosey out to the
upper range an’ help out some cot s
that's been backward in their calvin’.”
“Why, father—”
Without heeding what the suddenly'
flushed Glory intended to be a protest,
old Milt strode across to the corral and
fairly flung himself into his deep Mexi¬
can hull, sending his dun horse away with
a vicious rake of his heels.
Judd Lake started to murmur, to ex¬
cuse himself, but when he looked at
Glory’s eyes, it seemed to him they were
dancing rather than showing any con¬
fusion.
“Your father doesn’t appear to be quite
himself,” said Woodley-Wharton, looking
as if he were undecided whether to go or
stay.
“Oh, father is quite himself, isn’t he,
Judd?” observed Glory, and Judd Lake
was sure now there was a slow, little
smile puckering her curved mouth.
Judd made no reply, because at that
moment Bill Starr, the most recent sad¬
dle tramp to be taken on as a rider, came
around the corner of the bunkhouse.
Starr looked all of the drifter in a ragged
wool shirt and worn levis.
For all of his careless appearance and
apparent reluctance to shave more than
once a month, Starr was a likable cuss.
He was a good rider, quick and sure with
a rope, and easy with horses, and Judd
Lake aiways took to a man like that.
“Excusin’ it,” said Starr, his gray
eyes taking in Glory and her dude com¬
panion. “Not meanin’ to horn in, but
I’ve been waitin’ to tell you, Judd, I'm
rollin’ my tarp. Want to light out right
away, an’ reckoned to make Pecos Bend
for the night.”
Starr’s growth of beard did not quite
42
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
and a sobering thought. He was watch¬
ing Glory's suddenly grave face, and the
long look she was giving Bill Starr. He
was sure the girl’s mouth tightened
some.
That was it. He recollected now see¬
ing Glory talking with Bill Starr a few
times in the cool of evening. And he had
seen them riding together down by the
river at least twice.
Starr, he recalled now, had hired on
about the time Glory had come home from
the Eastern school.
hide the cleanness of his long jaw and
clear-cut features. His gray eyes and
his mouth smiled together.
“Sudden, ain’t it, Starr?” said Judd.
“Hain’t heard you was dissatisfied.”
“It ain’t that,” said Starr. “But I can’t
seem to stay put. Seein’ I drew a whole
month’s wages yesterday, thought I’d
light a shuck while I’m heeled. It’s about
as much as 1 ever have.”
“Never put a word in a man’s way,”
stated Judd. “You’re a top rider, Starr.
Got the stuff to settle down—”
“Whoopee!” grinned Starr. “Guess I
wasn’t cut of that kind o’ cloth. If it’s
the same to you, I’ll be ridin’.”
Judd Lake had a sudden remembrance,
“I say, Mr. Starr,” and Woodley-Whar-
ton spoke suddenly. “If you desire to re¬
main in this part of the country, I could
give you a job handling my horses.”
“Thanks,” said Starr shortly. “But I’m
afraid I wouldn’t fit on a dude—I mean,
on a hoss ranch.”
W ITH which ungracious speech,
Starr turned away and strode to¬
ward the. corral. Glory had not spoken,
and so far as Judd could see, Starr had
not so much as looked at the girl for a
goodbye.
“Come on, Charles,” said Glory quick¬
ly. “We’ll see Ching Lo about that straw¬
berry pie.”
DUDE GIRL’S DESPERADO
43
The hooded leader’s hand snapped a
signal. Judd’s horse reared, pranced.
Judd met up with five of the older
hands riding in. They swore some over
the unexpected word of a drive to be
made, which the hands knew would take
them well into the night.
As Judd headed back past the bunk-
house, he saw that Bill Starr was mount¬
ed and riding away. And the dude, Wood-
ley-Wharton, apparently had been out by
the corral talking with Starr just before
he roweled his horse into the trail that
went past the neighboring horse ranch
and on to Pecos Bend.
Judd squinted when he made out the
slim figure of Glory on the porch of the
ranch house. He might have been mis¬
taken, but it seemed to him the girl had
waved a goodbye to Bill Starr.
Judd thought Glory’s speech too
clipped, but the foreman was too much
taken up with other trouble to give this
too much mind. He guessed that Bill
Starr’s abrupt decision to leave might
have been connected with Glory’s recent
riding about the range with the dude of
the shoe-string horse ranch.
“Reckon old Milt would be twice as
roiled if’n Glory had turned out to be
the kind to smile on a saddle tramp,”
muttered Judd, as he climbed into the
saddle and started to roust up the older
hands he could trust to help him carry
out old Milt’s locoed orders.
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
“It’d been a heckuva good one on old
Milt if she had tooken Starr serious,”
muttered Judd.
Thereafter, for an hour, Judd had his
work cut out, convincing the five older
riders that old Milt had ordered prime
beef, ready for marketing, driven
through the Slash into the badlands.
However, Judd tempered this order to
his own notion.
“We’re chousin’ the cows on across the
valley and into a pocket I know of that’s
got grass enough for a few days,” he
told the riders.
As for old Milt’s reason for hazing two
thousand fattened cows onto short feed,
Judd kept buttoned up. Also he said noth¬
ing of the powder set at the dam which
supplied Bar-Q with all of its water. No.
He had to think on that, and if he did
blow up the dam, he would do it all on his
lonesome.
A LTHOUGH the sizable market herd
was so placed as to make herding
the cows into the Slash in Porcupine
ridge a simple chore for a few riders,
Judd Lake knew he would not find it so
easy to frame the story that old Milt
wanted to be spread about.
“I’ll jest wait till the cows is pocketed,
and I’ll make out I’m shootin’ at a coy¬
ote cornin’ back,” muttered Judd as the
cows crowded into the Slash trail, which
was a gap through the ridge leading from
one wide valley to another. “Only I’ll
have to tell the boys about the Black
Ghost rustlin’ yarn after that.”
Here in the deep Slash it was murky
dusk. Judd could hear the gurgle of the
flume carrying water from the big pond
above the dam on the ridge as they drove
the herd past it.
There had been a time when Wildcat
creek had divided its water between the
two valleys. That way there had not been
enough water for either of the possible
grazing ranges.
Old Milt Saner had seen that diversion
of the creek would make one of the val¬
leys a prosperous grazing range, while
drying up the other. He had chosen Pecos
valley, because it was closer to Pecos
Bend and the end of the railroad.
As no one had taken up any of the
land in the other valley, the diversion
dam had been approved by the state au¬
thority.
Judd was both worried and saddened
as the bawling, protesting herd rolled
out of the Slash into the other, valley. Be¬
yond this lay the malpais, miles of desert
and canyons in which an army could
have been hidden.
“Doggone Milt for a stubborn, weak-
minded coot!” grunted Judd, as the other
riders loped ahead to point up the strag¬
gling herd, and start moving toward the
pocket canyon about two miles away.
“It’d serve him right if some wanderin’
owlhooters come along an’ rustled the
whole passel of ’em!”
While there was fair moonlight, the
cows were not liking this unusual drive
at night. There were too few riders if
anything like a scattering started. It
could quickly become a stampede, and
the Bar-Q stuff really would end up all
over the badlands.
Judd moved up, to help on point, and
guide the herd toward the grazing
pocket, where he hoped the Summer had
not exhausted ail the grama grass.
“Humpy” Cotter was up there, and he
hailed Judd.
"Of all the whangdanged foolishness!”
complained Cotter. “Old Milt ain’t right
in the head! You tell me what this—”
Humpy Cotter got no farther. The
thunder of moving cows had covered the
clatter of running horses. Nearly a
dozen riders loomed up in the valley,
bearing directly down upon the point of
the herd.
Judd Lake pulled up his nag abruptly,
staring as if he had seen a ghost, or per¬
haps several ghosts. He had. The on¬
coming riders had guns out and metal
flashing in the moonlight.
But it was not this that startled and
chilled Judd to the bone. The leading
rider was close enough now for his horse
to show black in the moonlight. And the
rider was hooded, masked with a flow¬
ing black cloth that was draped over his
head and fell about his shoulders.
“Milt said a Black Ghost,” groaned
Judd. “Why, the double crossin' old ripj
DUDE GIRL’S DESPERADO
45
He’s framed it some way to have the stock
took out’n our hands an’ run off, an’
that’s why he said for me to say there
was a Black Ghost! By heck! I’ll show—”
Humpy Cotter swore a surprised oath,
and Humpy was dragging at his single
revolver. Judd had been too shocked to
decide just what to do. The other riders
were too far back along the drive to
see what was happening.
J UDD’S mind was made up for him.
The black-hooded leader reined up
and before either Judd or Humpy could
have started a fight against the odds that
faced them, a hard voice cracked out, and
Judd saw that they were covered by
drawn guns that could not miss.
"Ain’t knowm’ how come you’re driv-
fn’ no place, but we'll take the cows
from here! Ain’t aimin’ to kill nobody,
but bein’ new in these parts, we’re play¬
in’ careful!"
“Like the devill" rasped Judd, and
would have got his one gun into action,
but he was too late.
The hooded leader evidently knew his
business. His hand snapped a signal.
There was sudden cracking of rifles.
Judd's horse reared and was spooked,
prancing to one side.
Judd saw Humpy shoot once, but he
apparently failed to hit any of the hood¬
ed riders. Then the leaders of the herd
were bawling and piling up, swerving the
point to one side toward the downward
slant of the dry valley.
For the next few minutes, Judd had all
he could do to keep his horse from being
caught by tossing heads and thundering
feet of the spooked cows. Shooting and
yelling, the dozen or so owlhooters
wheeled the herd leaders into the begin¬
ning of a stampede that gathered swift
momentum.
Unaware of what had happened at the
point of the herd, the other Bar-Q riders
on the drag were balked at getting into
action by the speed of the surprise.
Humpy Gotter’s horse had fallen and
thrown him, and Judd finally got down to
find that Humpy was stunned but not
badly hurt.
By the time the Bar-Q riders had come
together, the herd they had driven from
the Slash was thundering away down the
dry valley. The hooded riders were fast
and all had vanished with the body of
the stampede before the few- milling
cows on the drag had reached them.
The riders were all for giving chase,
but Judd Lake stopped that. He was
thinking hard. His anger boiled, direct¬
ed at old Milt.
“He wouldn’t have thought of Black
Ghost, if he hadn’t knowed what he had
in mind," concluded Judd. “So if that's
the way he wants it, that’s the way it'll
have to be.”
Enraged, Judd then handed what he
believed was the truth to the other Bar-Q
men.
“Milt wants it this way, so this is the
way it is,” he concluded. “Says he's goin'
bust, all to teach Glory a lesson an’ show
up that whang-danged dude hoss ranch¬
er. Wants I should blow up the dam, too,
but I ain’t puttin’ a hand to it.”
He headed the swearing, discomfited
riders through the Slash. One and all
they said they were quitting here and
now. Seeing that old Milt was headed
for the rocks, Judd could see no good
reason why they should stick to the
Bar-Q, and told them so.
“I’m quittin' myself,” he announced.
“Soon as I see how Milt’s cock-eyed no¬
tion takes with the gal. Ain’t sayin’ it
won’t be for her good, but when Milt
thinks he can start all over again—”
Judd bit it off. For he knew deep in¬
side him that he would stick with the
stubborn ranch owner as long as he
could be of any help. Maybe so, he
thought, he could now get somewhere
with an argument.
They were coming out of the Slash.
“Milt'll be keenin’ his ears to hear the
dam blowed up,” said Judd. “But he can
keep on listenin'. I’ve got a few things to
say to him about pullin’ that Black
Ghost rustlin’ trick.”
The words had scarcely been spoken
when there was a muffled, booming blast
up on Porcupine ridge. Again Judd Lake
swore fervently.
“He didn't take ary chance on that
either!” he concluded. “We might as well
46
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
roll our tarps now, all o’ us. With the
water turned into the other valley, the
Bar-Q won’t be worth foreclosin’ the
mortgage Lafe Skinner’s been holdin’.”
<<\7 r OU know all-fired well they was a
A Black Ghost bunch o’ owlhooters
run off them cows, Milt!”
Exasperated beyond all caution, Judd
Lake faced old Milt Saner out by the
horse corral. Five riders of the night
before and some of the others were pre¬
paring to roll their tarps over in the
bunkhouse.
“Sounds convincin’, Judd, the way
you’re puttin’ yore heart into it,”
drawled old Milt, his smiling mouth draw¬
ing up his drooping mustache in a way
that made him look happy. "Jest keep on
tellin’ folks about the Black Ghost, an’
maybe you'll come to believe it your¬
self.”
“You plague-ridden, prevaricatin’ old
rooster,” grated Judd. “You sure run a
ranny onto me, but leastwise you didn’t
prod me into blowin’ the dam. Reckon
you know by now that they ain’t dinero
enough to switch that water back onto
the Bar-Q now. It split the ridge plumb
open.”
“Afeared to own up to what yuh was
ordered to do ?” taunted old Milt. “Do the
rest o’ the hands know you lit that pow¬
der fuse?”
Judd Lake glared at old Milt. He bad
a great desire to twist the owner’s
scrawny neck in his big hands.
“Who’d you git to bust the dam, if you
didn’t do it?” demanded Judd. “You can¬
tankerous, schemin’ double-crosser!
Wasn’t nobody knowed about that pow¬
der but me an’ you, I hope.”
“Hold yore hosses, Judd,” said old Milt
slowly. “Let’s git this sorted out. I’m
sayin’ you’re makin’ a good yarn out’n
the Black Ghost rustlers. But when yuh
intimate yuh didn’t bust the dam, they
ain’t none but me an’ you could-a done it.”
Stocky, red-faeed Judd Lake and old
Milt looked into each other’s eyes and
didn’t like the truth that seemed to be
there.
■Tve been thinkin’,” said Judd skjwly.
"They was a Black Ghost owihooter in a
hood, an’ they was a dozen rustlers with
him. If you didn’t stir up that mess, then
it was more than happenstance.”
“Meanin’ some’n heard what passed
between us ’fore yuh made that drive?”
muttered old Milt. “Judd, we’ll let this lay
as she is for now. Skinner’s note falls
due in five days. It’s for forty thousand.
They’s twenty thousan’ cash in the bank,
an’ sellin that market herd would’ve paid
off an’ give me runnin’ expenses for
more’n a year to come, which I ain’t
wantin’. The herd’s gone, an’ it’s worth
it to see Lafe Skinner when he finds out
the Bar-Q has turned dry range over¬
night, but—”
Judd hissed a warning, but he was too
late. Glory, tricked out in a curve-fittiBg
rig, was stepping lightly around the Cor¬
ner of the corral
“But I’ll be teetotally bung for a hoes
thief if’n I’ll let ary Black Ghost git away
with rustlin’ that herd!” finished old Milt.
“No sirree, Bob! If a reward will snag
him, I’ll have all Pecos Bend brush-pop-
pin’ the lowdown thief out’n the bad¬
lands !”
G LORY came on, and her face was
probably the prettiest picture of
downright worry to be found in ten
states.
“I have been informed of all the
trouble, father,*” stated Glory, with a side¬
long glance at Judd Lake. “Is it true that
you might lose the ranch if you can’t meet
your mortgage note?”
Old Milt’s eyes sought Judd’s with a
knowing, foxy look. Apparently it was his
day to gloat and he wanted it to be im¬
pressed upon Glory that aU that had been
her rightful inheritance had been rubbed
out in one double stroke.
“Yes, daughter., you have heard nothing
but the truth,” and he tried imitating her
Eastern accent. “The Bar-Q has been
wiped out dean. Meanin’ me an’ you,
daughter, ain’t ary place to lay our heads
after Lafe Skinner satisfies his grasping
soul by taking what’s left of the stock,
an’ sells out the whole home place."
Glory's reaction was wholly unexpect¬
ed. She came over and laid a small,
tanned hand upon old Milt’s shoulder.
DUDE GIRL’S DESPERADO
47
"Now don’t you worry about me,
father,” she said. "Or about yourself. I
am discussing this with Charles this
morning. He will know what is best to
do. Here he comes now.”
Judd and old Milt stared at the dude
rider with the fancy pants. Old Milt was
muttering words not meant for Glory’s
ears.
“Dagnation!” he concluded. "Maybe he
ain’t got the straight o’ it yet. But as soon
as he’s learnt it—’’
Old Milt’s belief seemed suddenly con¬
firmed. Glory was tripping toward
Charles Woodley-Wharton’s blooded bay
horse, her face all smiles. The dude’s
greeting stopped her like a bullet strik¬
ing.
“I say, Miss Saner!” exclaimed the
pale-faced scion of a cultured family
background. “I’m no end sorry. But we
will have to postpone our ride this morn¬
ing. I have been called suddenly to Pecos
Bend on business. Perhaps we can ride
some other time.”
"Why, Charles—oh, that is all right—
I understand—”
For the first time since her return
Glory appeared unsure of her diction. It
was sufficient for Woodley-Wharton, for
he inclined his head, turned the blooded
bay and touched him with the steel.
"Of all the cold-deckin’, mutton-man¬
nered slickers!” shouted old Milt. “Glory!
I'll take that dude—”
Judd put a hand on his arm. "Ain’t
that what you was angling for, Milt?” he
interrupted. “The less said—”
Glory’s small head came up. Trim and
straight, she walked toward the house,
not looking at old Milt or Judd.
"The lowdown rapscallion!” exclaimed
old Milt. "Tol’ yuh he’d welch out! Jest
to make sure he don’t have no change of
mind, I’m makin’ it good!”
Without saying how he could make
matters worse, or better, old Milt strode
over to his saddled horse, got aboard, and
sent him pounding toward the Pecos
Bend trail.
W HEN he rode in late that night,
old Milt Saner was silent over
what might have happened in Pecos Bend.
Judd Lake started out the next day. By
noon he had a fair idea that all the water
of Wildcat creek was trickling through
the thirsty soil of the valley beyond Por¬
cupine Ridge.
He had an idea then that brought a
glint into his eyes.
“Milt’s still got twenty thousan’ cash,”
he mused. “He can buy up the valley for
a song. Lafe Skinner will be stung prop¬
er. Milt can start up a new Bar-Q, havin’
rid himself of that fancy pants dude.
Glory’ll git over it.”
But as he rode back toward the home
buildings, Judd suddenly became aware
that an almighty lot of riders appeared to
have taken up the hunt for the Black
Ghost herd raider. A dozen scattered
posses were crossing Porcupine Ridge and
riding toward the badlands.
"Never seen such a manhunt,” mut¬
tered Judd. “Reckon though I’d best shag
over to Pecos myself an’ line up that val¬
ley range 'fore some o’ them town jas¬
pers wises up to what that diverted water
means.”
So it happened Judd rode up to the
courthouse in Pecos Bend without
tarrying to inquire what had prodded
the entire town into combing the malpais
for a mysterious Black Ghost owlhoot-
er. In fact, Judd was beginning to doubt
old Milt again.
"Sure as sin the oP coot framed
that Black Ghost raid,” said Judd as he
tied to the courthouse rack. “Maybe so
he stirred up the big hunt just to make
it look good.”
At the moment Judd was blissfully un¬
aware of what means old Milt had taken
to set the whole town upon the trail of a
vanished Black Ghost. He was to find out
with a cold shock of understanding very
soon.
First though, another shock awaited
him.
"I’d like to find out about what it would
take to settle on the valley land east¬
ward o’ Porcupine Ridge?” said Judd to
Mooney, the shriveled probate clerk.
Mooney peered over steel-rimmed spec¬
tacles and shook his head.
"’Fraid you’re a mite too late, Judd,”
48
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
he said. “That same passel o’ ]and has all
been took over by filin’ on an’ payin’ up
some five thousan’ or so cash on old
settlers’ claims. Made out the rightful
papers for the whole danged valley only
yesterday.”
Judd had a feeling of quick elation.
Then old Milt had been smart. That must
have been why he had visited Pecos
Bend.
,f ¥eah, I’d forgot about Milt sayin’
he’d handle it himself,” he said, to cover
his surprise.
“Y’mean Milt Saner?” Mooney shook
his head. “Huhuh, Judd. It wasn’t Milt.
The whole valley’s been took over by that
Woodley-Wharton fella. Said somethin’
about it bein’ what he wanted for a big¬
ger hoss ranch.”
Judd knew all the words he might have
employed. But they were not fit to be
spoken within the confines of the
county’s law building.
Judd stalked down the corridor. He
noticed the sheriff’s office door was closed,
and a small sign had been posted there.
The sign had been hastily scribbled. It
read—
Anybody having sheriff’s business
will have to postpone it. We have
joined the hunt for the lawless Black
Ghost rustler. All and sundry are en¬
titled to bring in the Black Ghost
dead or alive. Twenty thousand dol¬
lars, cash in hand, has been deposit¬
ed with this office as a reward by
Milton Saner, of the Bar-Q ranch.
This sum will be paid in its entirety
to the party or parties bringing in
the Black Ghost.
Sheriff Clem Akers.
Judd walked from the courthouse in a
daze. He went over to the Two Spot sa¬
loon and downed three straight glasses
of chain lightning without ever batting
an eye.
T UDD LAKE was red-eyed and sick
when he reached the Bar-Q the morn¬
ing after Pecos Bend had destroyed all of
his faith in mankind. He alighted at the
corral, ground-hitched his horse, and
went to the bunkhouse.
“I'll roll the old tarp while I’ve still
got the strength,” he groaned. "If’n I so
much as set eyes on old Milt, I’ll never
be able to keep from popping him.”
There was a sudden commotion near
the bunkhouse. Evidently somebody had
beaten Judd to popping old Milt. Least¬
wise, it was old Milt who was cursing and
tumbling backward at the corner of the
bunkhouse.
Then old Milt was up and, with his
head lowered, he charged back out of
Judd’s range of vision. Old Milt was roar¬
ing.
“Where’d yuh take ’er, yuh misbred
son ? An’ yuh have the guts to come here
bluffin’ with yore offer to pay off'n the
note on the Bar-Q 1 I’ll learn yuh!”
Judd shagged over. There was fancy
pants Woodley-Wharton.
“I said I would pay off the note, just
to be neighborly,” got in the pale-faced
dude. “As for Glory, she was riding with
me late yesterday, but left me, saying
she was returning home.”
“Yuh bald-faced liar!” yelled old Milt
and he aimed a knockout swing at the
dude’s chin.
To Judd’s amazement the dude did not
strike back, nor seem to do more than
step sideways and flick out one hand. Yet
old Milt somehow heeled backward and
repeated the pants-slamming tumble to
the dusty ground.
Judd inserted his stocky figure between
the dude and old Milt.
“Dally it, Milt,” he admonished, his
mind mostly upon what had been said
about Glory. “You know the whereabouts
of Glory, Mister Woodley-Wharton?
Seems as how that comes first in order.”
“The sneakin’ coyote—”
“Shut up, Milt!” Judd was madder
than a hornet now. “Whassay, Woodley-
Wharton ?”
"Glory rode toward home at dark last
night,” stated the dude. “I have not seen
her since. I rode over with an offer to
buy up the Bar-Q note from this Lafe
Skinner and extend it as long as Saner
might want it.”
Judd snorted and let go with all of his
repressed anger.
"You couldn’t maybe explain bow
PUDE GIRL’S DESPERADO
49
come yuh grabbed onto the yonder val¬
ley that’ll be watered by the divertin’ of
Wildcat creek, Mr. Woodley-Wharton?
Or did yuh have that in mind when yuh
blowed up the Bar-Q dam?"
Old Milt goggled at Judd.
“Grabbed the valley—blowed up the
dam?” exploded old Milt. “Lemme at
him, Judd! The snake-bellied fortune-
hunter! He’s took my Glory, an’ he’s
holdln’ her for ransom, that’s what.”
“Mite twisted in yore logistics, ain’t
yuh. Milt?” drawled Judd. “For a
money-hunter, this dude’s suddenly
flashin’ an all-fired lot o’ dinero. Could¬
n’t be that he’s stubbed his toe onto a
handy fortune, like the market price for
some two thousan’ head o’ prime beef
that’d go at around forty or fifty apiece?”
It seemed to Judd that Woodley-Whar¬
ton’s bloodless face grew paler, if that
could be. And old Milt was suddenly edg¬
ing over and eyeing Judd’s holstered
gun, as if he had fatal gunsmoke on his
mind.
Woodley-Wharton made a sad mistake
then.
"Someone informed you that my riders
helped carry out Mr. Saner’s desire to
become entirely insolvent?” spoke the
dude, making it an admission and a ques¬
tion together. “I can explain—”
O LD MILT caught Judd with an un¬
expected punch in the stomach. He
had Judd’s revolver before Judd could
unravel his contorted midriff. With a
yell of rage, old Milt whipped up the
gun, thumbing back the hammer as it
centered upon the dude’s breastbone.
Judd tried to find strength to inter¬
vene. But it was the pale-faced dude him- -
self who dived as the gun came up. What
happened would forever be a mystery to
both Judd and old Milt.
The gun exploded. At the moment, how¬
ever, old Milt had become afflicted with
an ankle hold that sent him into an acro¬
batic backward somersault, such as he
could never have performed in his young¬
er and spryest days.
Then Woodley-Wharton had the gun
and old Milt was on his hands and knees,
cussing and shaking his head like a goat
that had butted by mistake into hard-
rock.
Judd had recovered his breath, and
with it had come an enlightening thought.
He recollected that the departing Bill
Starr, saddle drifter, had conversed with
Woodley-Wharton just before lighting a
shuck off the Bar-Q.
Also, there had been a shadow at a win¬
dow when old Milt had given his order to
drive off his herd, blow the dam, and
otherwise bust the Bar-Q flatter than a
pancake. Come to think on it, Judd had
not heard any word of Bill Starr having
been in Pecos Bend.
“Wait, Milt,” counseled Judd. “It
couldn’t be that a no-good range tramp
give yuh ideas, could it, Woodley-Whar¬
ton?”
What the dude might have replied was
interrupted by the arrival of riders. Judd
was speechless as he saw Sheriff Lem
Akers and a few town members of a
posse.
And Glory was riding on one side of
the sheriff, while on the other rode a slim,
erect figure whose hard grin and gray
eyes showed a defiant scorn for the steel
jangling on his wrists.
“Bill Starr?” exclaimed Judd and old
Milt together.
“William?” gasped Woodley-Wharton,
but nobody paid him any heed.
“Well, here we are, Saner!" hailed
Sheriff Akers. “Reckon the Black Ghost
has been caught dead to rights! This is
him, Saner, an’ they ain’t anything I can
do but pay over yore twenty thousan’ re¬
ward money.”
"Yes, father,” stated Glory gravely be¬
fore old Milt could quit swallowing his
tongue. “I claim the twenty thousand for
delivering the Black Ghost, along with
some eighty-odd thousand received for
the beef cows sold by the Black Ghost
and loaded over at Comanche.”
Judd Lake thought Glory’s face was a
bit pale under its tan, but the light in the
girl’s wide eyes puzzled him. Old Milt was
the first to recover from shock.
“You can’t pay—she can’t c’lleet—she’s
my own daughter—sheriff, arrest this
misfitted, fancy panted dude—he helped
50
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
run off my cows—he biowed my dam—he
stole—"
It seemed to Judd that Bill Starr was
almighty calm for a cattle rustler who
might be facing prison bars for the rest
of his life. In truth, the saddle drifter’s
stomach muscles were rippling as if in¬
ward laughter was about to break forth.
But it was Glory who for the second
time caused old Milt to try to swallow
his tongue.
“No, father,” said Glory softly. “It was
I who caused the explosion at the dam.
It was what you wanted, wasn’t it? You
were heard to issue an order to Judd Lake
that it be blown up. Besides, it was a con¬
venient way to defeat Lafe Skinner’s
taking the Bar-Q after he had collected
much more in interest than you ever
owed him on the principal of the loan
that built the dam years ago.”
O LD MILT was storing up words that
Judd was sure would cause any
self-respecting polecat to crawl into a
hole and stuff its ears. Old Milt got out,
“Yuh blowed up the dam, Glory? Yuh
wiped out the work of a lifetime—yuh
meant to ruin me—yuh connived with
this—this white-blooded, snaky dude to
bankrupt the dad what hand-raised yuh
an’—”
“Whope, Milt,” interrupted Judd, hav¬
ing seen something that he was not
meant to observe. “Don’t go hypercriti¬
cal over bein' outsmarted on yore own
fool notion to go bust. I’m opinin’ that
Glory has some more talkin’ to do.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” rasped Sheriff
Akers. “Let’s don’t keep gittin’ off the
subject. What’s this about stealing a val¬
ley, and what am I supposed to do with
the Black Ghost, now that he's caught an’
the cow money has been paid over to the
smartest gal ever born on the Pecos?”
“Jut this—this Black Ghost in jail—
arrest—put this dude with him—” Old
Milt was trying to savvy something of all
this amazing situation.
“Your valley is not stolen, father,”
stated Glory. “We had an idea the other
side of the ridge would be a better place
to build a new house, and there will be
twice the range for grazing that we had
on the Bar-Q.”
“We had an idea?" shouted old Milt.
“Who had an idea? Who’s we?”
“Why, father, my husband and I,” said
Glory calmly. “Then you seemed to want
to throw away everything, so we picked
it up.”
“Yore husband?” yelled old Milt. “Yuh
ain’t hitchin’ up with no dandefied dude.
Not even if he’s turned yore head an’ set
you ag’in' yore own dad. Him havin’ you
take my beef money, an’ the reward to
buy the land that was mine by all
rights.”
Judd felt as if he had a box seat at a
good bronc-busting show. He saw
Charles Woodley-Wharton turning his
head and smiling. He noticed that Bill
Starr looked bored, rubbing the back of
a manacled hand across his square chin.
“Not your money, father,” smiled
Glory. “Not one cent of it. Charles is
planning to spend nearly half a million
on a blooded horse ranch, but he is turn¬
ing your valley, bought with a small part
of his own money, back to you.”
“Dang my time!” roared old Milt. “I
still ain’t consentin’ to yore marryin’ a
slicker that comes misrepresentin’ him¬
self to be a fortune-hunter—”
“I’d swaller my tongue an’ keep it
down until it sorts out some kind o’ sense,
Milt,” murmured Judd.
“Look, folks 1” Sheriff Akers was be¬
coming restless.
“All right, father,” agreed Glory un¬
expectedly. “I promise you that I will not
marry Charles, never. I haven’t even
thought of it. Besides Charles is bring¬
ing his wife and two children out from
the East as soon as he has a place ready
for them.”
Old Milt stared at the girl. Sheriff
Akers grunted, then renewed his protest.
“How about this Black Ghost—this
Bill Starr, Saner?” he demanded. “He ad¬
mits running off your cows, but says he
can prove you had ordered them drifted
into the badlands, and that he was only
trying to salvage them.”
“I don’t care howsoever he stole the
beef 1” grated old Milt, sure he was on the
right track this time. “Yuh can see he’s
DUDE GIRL’S DESPERADO
51
an owlhooter, hirin’ himself out to law¬
ful ranchers to steal an’—”
“You can’t do that, father,” interrupt¬
ed Glory once more. "I don’t intend to
have my husband in prison when my first
baby is born.”
There was a long minute of dazed si¬
lence all around.
Then old Milt groaned. “The Black
Ghost—this Bill Starr—no, Glory, no.
He couldn’t be yore husband.”
"But he is, father. He has been for
more than a year now. We thought you
would take some time getting used to it,
so we didn’t say anything. You see,
father, he is Woodley-Wharton’s cousin,
and he inherited almost as much of the
family money as Charles. But he wanted
to learn cattle-raising at firsthand—”
While Sheriff Akers was unlocking the
handcuffs, Bill Starr grinned broadly.
“I think we’ll hit it off, dad, when you
get used to me,” he said. “Anyway didn’t
I help you out when you wanted to go
bust?”
J UDD LAKE put his hand on old Milt’s
shoulder.
“Easy does it,” he advised softly. “Yuh
didn’t want ary fortune-hunter in the
family. Yuh got yore wish. Now yuh can
sit back an’ take yore rest and—”
“Git away from me, Judd!” exploded
old Milt. “Yuh dang* slow-minded wal¬
loper! Do yuh think I didn't know it all
the time?”
“Yup, Milt,” nodded Judd. “That’s just
what I think.”
MAY -SINK A SHIP
ACTS OF CONGRESS OF AUGUST 24, 1812, AND MARCH 3. 1333
Speed Western Stories, published monthly ant Springfield, Mass., September 34, 1344.
State of New York , _
County of New York J ** -
Before me, a Notary Public in and for tbe State and county aforesaid, personally appeared Frank Araier.
who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and gays that he is the Publisher of tbe Speed
Western Stories and that tbe following is, to the best of his knowledge and belief, a true statement of tbe
ownership, management (and if a daily paper, the circulation), etc., of the aforesaid publication for the
date shown in the above caption, required by the Act of August 24, 1912, as amended by the Act of March 3.
1333. embodied in section 687, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed on the reverse of this form, to wit:
1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business managers are:
Publisher, Trojan Publishing Corp., 126 East 46th Street, New York 17, N. Y.; Editor. Kenneth Hutchinson.
126 East 46th Street. New York 17. N. Y.; Managing Editor, Wilton Matthews. 126 East 46th Street,
New York 17, N. Y.; Business Manager, Frank Aimer, 126 East 46th Street, New York 17. N. Y.
2. That the owner is: (If owned by a corporation, its name and address must be stated and also immediately
thereunder the names and addresses of stockholders owuing or holding one per cent or more of total
amount of stock. If not owned by a corporation, the names and addresses of the individual owners must
be given. If owned by a firm, company, or other unincorporated concern, its name and address, as well
as those of each individual member, must be given.) Trojan Publishing Corp.. 125 East 46th Street, New
York 17, N. Y.: Frank Armer, 125 East 46th Street, New York 17, N. Y.: Michael Estrow, 114 East 47th
Street, New York 17, N. Y.; G. Donenfdd, 126 East 4«fh Street, New York 17, N. Y.; J. E. Waaserman,
801 Harries Bldg., Dayton, Ohio.
3 . That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding 1 per cent or
•ore of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities ares (If there are none, so state.) None.
4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of the owners, stockholders, and security
holders, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and security holders as they appear upon the books
of the company but also, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears upon the books of the
company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of tbe person or corporation for jwhom
such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said two paragraphs contain statements embracing affiants
full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security
. —*-- the books of the company as trustees, hold stock and securities rfl a
fide owner; and this affiant has no reason to believe that any other person,
_ _ y Interest direct or indirect in the said stock, bonds, or other securities
than as so stated by him.
6. That the average number of copies of each issue of this publication sold or distributed, through the
mails or otherwise, to paid subscribers during the twelve month* preceding the date shown above is.
(This information is required from daily publications only.) FRANK ARMEB Publisher.
Sworn to and subscribed before me this 18th day of September, 1*44. ALFRED B. YAFFE.
(My commission expires March 80, 184*)
tr than that of six
BUZZARD
Rusty Malone was a red¬
headed Irishman, a rancher
new to this frontier range. It
rubbed him plenty the wrong
way to be suspected of being
the leader of a bushwhacking
rustler gang—and it seemed
his only chance to erase the
suspicion was to take more
long, dangerous chances than
the vigilantes or the rustlers
themselves . . .
"Get back to your host or I’ll
let you have it!" she told him.
H IS neighbors’ suspicion hedged in
"Rusty” Malone like invisible
barbed wire. The young owner of
the Riata spread could feel the doubt of
his honesty holding the four ranchers
who had ridden over this morning to
make known a decision.
That his four friends and fellow cow¬
men, of six months acquaintance, should
have held a palaver and made up their
minds in his absence was direct evidence
of their distrust. They tried to keep it
out of their eyes and voices, but it was
there, like a flat-handed slap in the face.
"It comes to this, Malone,” stated
Longan, the graying and leather-faced
owner of the PB. “Somebody in the
valley has to be in cahoots with these
here raiders. They ain't workln' under
any known owlhoot leader. In three forays
that robbed us of more than half of three
trail drives to Black Horse the rustlers
had to have advance information when
we would hit Goatfoot Canyon."
By T. V. FAULKNER
*‘Hadda be timed to the minute, the
way we’ve figured it out,” added Donner,
of the X-Bar, shrugging his blocky shoul¬
ders. “The devik had their gulchers
planted all three times in tricky spots
where they couldn’t have stayed longer
than a couple o’ hours.”
Rusty Malone swallowed hard, fighting
back an anger aroused by his instinctive
understanding th.V there had been a
reason for these four meeting without
him to form an opinion. They, the five
owners of the valley, had agreed three
months before to combine forces on their
market drives.
This had been decided after each spread
had lost small lots of cows in range raids.
Their three monthly drives had been dis¬
astrous, the losses heavy.
“I take it you fellas have fixed your
sights on somebody in the valley?” said
Rusty Malone, choosing his words. “May¬
be some rider what's been hired on
recent?”
H ARDEN, of the LZ, lifted his dark
eyes, seeming to aim at Rusty
Malone along nis sharp nose. He spoke,
sparing of his words, through his tight
line of a mouth.
S3
54
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
“No rider was took in on the time of
ary drive until we was ready to bunch
the cows," said Harden, his tone having
the plain intent to eliminate all hired
hands.
That left Carlson, overfed and fun-
loving owner of the 2-Dot, who nearly
always had a joke to tell. A frown took
the smoothness from his round face.
“They’re meanin’, Malone,” said Carl¬
son gravely, “that this has to be some¬
body who knowed at least a day ahead of
the start for the canyon. They’s five
of us."
Coming from Carlson, this had almost
the weight of an accusation. These four,
Longan, Donner, Harden, and Carlson
had been years in the valley. Rusty Ma¬
lone had bought the big open graze along
the mountain hogback but six months
before.
No man in that country ever asked
another man whence he had come or why.
This was still frontier country. Tucked
away in the Sangre de Cristos, the valley
would probably stay that way for gen¬
erations.
Rusty Malone was young. He had been
a wild one, but clean. Perhaps these
neighbors, always so friendly heretofore,
had heard that he had turned up his
stake for the Riata spread on one lucky
hand at cards.
Rusty alone knew that lucky deal could
have marked the line where he might
have chosen another trail, had he lost.
But he had never gunned any man and
he had combed the wildness out of his
red hair and come to this valley cold.
His blood boiled now. He chose to
ignore what had been implied. A sudden
thought helped him.
“You said they’s five of us, Carlson,”
he mused slowly. “It leaves out one who
hadn’t any cows in the drives, but who
was took in on it beforehand on account
of us havin’ to cross his land to the Hump
spring for waterin’.”
Because his skin was thin, the flicker
of the eyes over his remark seemed to
say his suggestion only confirmed their
suspicion. That he had mentioned this as
a throw-off.
“Meanin’ o’ course, ‘Jinx’ Jevers, of
the hard luck Pothole,” said Longan, his
tired eyes apparently showing his dis¬
belief that old Jinx Jevers could be con¬
sidered. “You’re new or yuh wouldn’t
have said that, Malone. Jevers has been
rasslin’ a tough livin’ out of a few cows
in the Pothole for twenty years.”
“Jevers has been hirin’ hisself out to
all-a us in tight times to piece out an
existence,” spoke up Donner, shrugging
his blocky shoulders as if that dismissed
it. “Even if he is so situated nigh to the
spine as to maybe have the easiest contact
with any owlhoots holin’ up in the bad¬
lands.”
Harden had a scowl on his dark, thin
face. But his words came as a surprise
to Rusty Malone.
“Yeah, Jinx Jevers has been amongst
us for years,” he agreed with Longan
and Donner. “But sometimes a man’s
mind slips when he finds hisself gittin’
old an’ still scrapin’ the bottom o’ the
barrel. I think Malone has a right to his
opinion.”
It was the usually carefree Carlson who
put in a sudden clincher.
“I’ve got me an idea,” offered Carlson.
“First though, I’m tellin’ Malone the
straight of what we’d chewed over. Ma¬
lone, you took over the graze you’ve called
the Riata. All o’ us has been well-stocked.
You ain’t more’n a tenth the cows yore
land would fatten. You’re a newcomer,
an’ it’s got to that point where we’ve
gotta know what’s what.”
F OR ALL of his anger, Rusty could see
the sense in that drift. He started
to speak, but Carlson stopped him with
one fat hand held up.
“S’pose,” said Carlson, “Malone rides
over to the Pothole an’ bring Jinx Jevers
back to the Riata this same day. If
Jevers hs>s gone off his mind an’ morals,
an’ he could be connivin’ with these here
raiders, what woulc happen if it was
surmised that Jevers had been trapped,
an’ we was aimin’ to make him say who
he was in cahoots with?”
“Don’t believe it of Jevers,” growled
Longan. “But I’d say if it was true, them
owlhoots would like as not aim to make
BUZZARD BAIT
55
sure Jevers didn’t do no talkin’ or name
no names.”
“That’s smart, Longan,” nodded the
hawk-faced Harden. “Yeah, if it should
so happen to be Jevers, it’s more’n likely
the owlhoots keep an eye on the Pothole.
If Malone was to act as if he was takin’
Jevers contrary to his will, it might bait
the buzzards into showin’ their hand.”
“I don’t quite savvy it, but maybe it
makes sense,” agreed Longan, shaking
his gray head. “Come to think on it,
Malone, yuh ain’t ever met up with Jinx
Jevers, have yuh?”
“No,” said Rusty. “Seems like our
trails never mixed. All I know of him is
what you fellas have said. Even when we
drove trail herd through the Pothole I
missed Jevers personally.”
Rusty Malone v..s holding his temper.
That he was in a tight in the minds of
his four neighbors had no justification,
as he knew himself.
But "-he blunt, inescapable fact re¬
mained that only six men knew of the
timing of three trail herd drives. Only
this same six now knew of a fourth
market drive being planned for two weeks
from this day.
It seemed taken for granted among the
four cowmen—Longan, Donner, Harden
and Carlson—that they, long-time ranch¬
ers of the valley, were above any sus¬
picion. That impressed Rusty Malone,
even though his more recent ownership
of the Riata had laid him open to the first
suspicion of the others.
And yet he was rather regretting he
had mentioned Jinx Jevers. From what
he hail heard of him, the old man had
met with tough luck for many years.
His few cows had seldom paid out and he
had been forced to hire out on roundups
and at calf-branding time to keep himself
in grub.
Faced, however, with the brand of
possible guilt in the minds of those he
had hoped to keep as long-time friends,
Rusty came to the only possible decision.
“Whatever you have been thinkin’, an’
whatever may come of this, I ain’t ad¬
mirin’ the chore,” he said. “Maybe I can
make it easy on old Jevers, invitin’ him
over—”
“That won’t git nowhere,” interrupted
Carlson, unexpectedly. “Nope. Yuh gotta
make it look like it’s dead serious, Ma¬
lone.”
Harden and Donner nodded. Only Lon¬
gan still showed his disapproval.
“I’ll use my own judgment,” said Rusty
finally. “I’ve never been on the Pothole,
except to go through at night with the
herds. I’ll be back with Jevers come sun¬
down. The cook will roust you fellas some
chuck.”
“Reckon we’d best come ridin’ to meet
you,” suggested Carlson. “If they could
be anything to Jevers an’ the rustlers,
you might meet up with trouble.”
“Yup, that’s so,” said Harden, his dark
eyes thoughtful. “An’, Malone, you’d best
wear two guns an’ tote the Winchester.
Reckon they ain’t nothin’ to it, but you
wouldn’t want to be caught flat.”
When Rusty Malone headed his black
gelding toward the Pothole high under
the mountain spine, his Winchester rode
in the saddle boot.
R USTY MALONE had never been one
to think ill of another man. He had
missed a few times in taking other hom-
bres at face value, but here in the valley
he had accepted his neighbors as four¬
square.
Still, knowing his own conscience.
Rusty was thinking harder than ever
before in his twenty-five years. Had there
been an undercurrent of thinking among
his four fellow ranchers?
Had any one of the four had a reason
for wanting suspicion first cast upon him,
then have had another idea after Jinx
Jevers had been brought into the con¬
versation?
It was not good thinking, but it had its
points. Away from his neighbors. Rusty
could take them apart more coldly.
As he passed over a ridge that would
verge down to the Pothole, Rusty could
see all of the wide spread of the thousands
of acres of the valley. Nowhere had he
ever seen better all-year grazing or more
abundant water, with ample shelter for
Winter,
The Don Adrone who had once owned
56
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
all of this in a single vast ranchero had
named it Valle dc Poco Cielo, meaning
Valley of the Little Heaven.
Busty had dreamed of it some day be¬
coming just that for him. Some day when
his Riata was fully stocked. When he
could find the woman such a homestead
ranch should have.
His first six months had added to his
hopeful dream. He knew neighbors were
important, and he had found the kind of
men he had liked.
Longan, of the PB, aging, mellow, and
kindly.
Donner, of the X-Bar, bluff and hearty.
Harden, LZ, a dark, shrewd man, but
apparently always looking out for the
interest of the whole valley.
Carlson, of the 2-Dot, cheerful and fun
to-have around.
Today the grim shadow of suspicion
had come among them. It had fallen first
upon Malone. Knowing himself, in turn
Rusty could but find a growing doubt of
BUZZARD BAIT
57
all the others in the little valley.
This was in his mind as he rode down
into the Pothole. The ramshackle build¬
ings, stable, corrals, and split-log shack
of the one-man cow ranch did not look
inviting.
Jinx Jevers, shaggy of hair and long
of scraggly beard, was no more to be ad¬
mired than his layout. As Rusty rode up,
Jevers lifted himself lazily from the cabin
step, his eyes dull in their thickly browed
setting.
For all of his apparently torpid eyes,
Jinx Jevers showed a quick furtiveness
as he looked at Rusty.
"How-de-do,” greeted Rusty, waiting
to hear the expected “light down” cus¬
tomary with any stranger.
“Yah?” grunted Jevers, and Rusty
noted the quick turn of his head, as if
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
lie were making a survey of the rimroek
that hedged in this home pocket of the
Pothole,
Jevers was wearing patched, non¬
descript clothes. His long beard was
stained. Mat over all he was of the same
good size as Rusty and his slow move¬
ment appeared to foe more of choice than
of age.
Rusty said: “I’m your neighbor, Ma¬
lone.”
“Yah? I’ve seen yuh... Yuh be wantin’
suthin’?”
T HIS was scarcely Hie hospitality of
the Valley of Little Heaven. Jevers’
tone was surly and he might as well have
said, “Name your business and be on
your way.”
Rusty got down anyway. He saw then
that Jevers’ grimy hand had strayed to
his belt and the butt of the old revolver
holstered there. Again Jevers cocked an
eye toward the door of his cabin, then
upward to the rimroek that crowded down
upon it here.
Rusty had not before really suspected
that Jevers might be the contact for the
thieving raiders. He had come on this
chore with but a vague idea of what it
might accomplish.
On the way he had even permitted
himself to think over the possibility of
one of his other four neighbors having
gone bad. Now Jinx Jevers was creating
the first real suspicion that Rusty had
had.
It was certain that his visit was un¬
welcome. It was also evident that Jevers
was furtively looking and listening for
something or somebody.
“Yeah, I’m wanting something,” said
Rusty abruptly. “I’m here to fetch you
over for a palaver with the other ranchers
in the valley.”
“Me?" Jevers’ voice was suddenly
sharp. ’“Yuh git nothin’ but tired pants
if that’s why yuh come. I ain’t gain’ no
place, an’ yuh kin fork yore nag an’ git.”
Rusty tried grinning at Hie cantanker¬
ous cuss, but the response was unexpected.
He had not moved to get back in Hie
saddle, and Jevers made a sudden dart
of his hand. It brought the old revolver
out, pointed at Rusty’s face.
“Longan an’ the others said you was to
come along,” tried Rusty placatingly.
“If yuh ain’t in that hull ’fore I can
spit, I’ll—”
This had turned out seriously. Rusty
had not even wanted to suspect Old
Jevers. In fact, even now he could lay
Jevers’ stubbornness to age and the pos¬
sible slipping of his time-weary mind, as
one of the others had suggested.
Rut Rusty had ridden over to take
Jevers back with him. And a bullet from
that old .45 could be just as lethal as lead
from the iron of a gunnie.
“I’ll sure ventilate yore hide,” finished
Jevers.
Rusty acted swiftly. He partly turned
as if to swing back to the saddle. But he
paused, whipping his eyes to the rimroek
behind and above old Jevers.
“So that’s what you been watching
for!” exclaimed Rusty.
Jevers wasn’t smart enough to sense
the trick. His shaggy head turned, his
dull eyes leaving Rusty. There could be
no doubt that Jevers had been expecting
something or someone to appear.
Rusty dived from his toes, vised onto
Jevers’ gun wrist and punched into the
old man’s beard just hard enough to set
him down.
Old Jevers was tougher than Rusty had
guessed. Rusty was caught by Jevers’
knees jerking up into his stomach. Jevers’
arms flailed out and a knuckled fist
slammed under Rusty’s ear.
At that Rusty found he would have to
go to town with the old man or he might
find himself getting the worst of it. An¬
other blow nearly flattened his nose.
Then Rusty let Jevers have it on Hie
chin where the thick beard cushioned
the punch. Jevers sighed and sank down,
his arms spreading inertly.
Rusty was getting up, considering his
next move.
“I guess you have been in cahoots with
the rustlers after all!” he said harshly
to Hie old man who was still trying to get
up and whose eyes had opened. “I’m hav¬
in’ to take you for cow-stealin’, Jevers 1”
“You’ll do nothing like it, mister!"
BUZZARD BAIT
59
a clear voice said with scathing empha¬
sis. ’“Now you get your hands in sight
and mosey back o your hoss! Be quick
about it or I'll let you have it!"
P USTY was so fascinated by the sur¬
prise, and the vivid, pretty face
framed by black, flowing hair that the
small rifle she pointed at him did not im¬
press him at first. She was a slight girl,
but the long, tigh+ skirt hinted that she
was properly curved. Her feet were en¬
cased in beaded moccasins.
To say that Rusty was taken back
would be to put it mildly.
“You don’t understand—” he began.
“I heard enough!” snapped the girl,
and he saw that she had blue eyes that
contrasted with her black hair. “I’ll give
you just time to climb in your saddle.
If you 1 don’t—”
Rusty drawled out, “You’re holdin’ all
the cards, miss,” and turned his back
toward her,
He knew she would look toward old
Jevers nd she did. Rusty performed a
fast spin, dropping and skidding toward
the girl.
The Sharps rifle crashed with the hard
barrel flattening Rusty’s ear. He tight¬
ened his circling arms about the girl’s
legs and she screamed and sat down sud¬
denly.
Rusty’s face was buried for seconds
against her and ^ felt so foolish that his
ears burned. He forgot any compunction
he might have had in the next thirty
seconds.
She was like some hissing wildcat as
she clawed at his head and nearly tore
off his ears. Disliking to subdue the girl
with a sleep-producing fist, Rusty was
getting all the worst of it.
Old Jevers added to his discomfiture
and lessened any chance to stop the girl
by easy methods. Jevers might have used
his gun, which lay on thte ground, but
luckily he seemed to forget it.
But he grabbed onto Rusty’s ankles,
jerking him down when he attempted to
get his balance. Jevers was cursing wild¬
ly. Between lurid oaths he was resenting
the charge he faced.
"Yuh spavined rapscallion!” squawked
Jevers. “Sayin’ I’m a cow-rustler! Yuh
lie through yore teeth, yuh carrot-head¬
ed no-account ceme-lately! I’ll take yuh
apart an’ feed yuh to the hawgs, mis¬
namin’ me a thief!”
Half blinded by the girl’s flying claws,
his midriff stretched until the skin
seemed about to crack and his body
swinging between the girl and old
Jevers, Rusty really got mad about it ail.
Suspended by old Jevers’ hands on his
ankles, Rusty let go at last with a sud¬
den. smash of knuckles that flattened the
girl’s rounded chin, tilted her head back
and set her down kerthump.
Old Jevers made the mistake then of let¬
ting go of Rusty’s ankles with the idea
of whopping into him with his fists.
Rusty caught Jevers with the force of a
boot heel that was more of a shove than
a kick.
He landed upon Jevers with all of his
weight, slapping him dizzy. Then he
stopped that as Jevers caved, not want¬
ing to hurt the ornery, old jigger more
than was called for.
The girl was still out and it worried
Rusty. But Jevers was shaking his shaggy
head dizzily and mumbling. Real tears
came to the old man’s eyes, trickled down
his leathery cheeks and vanished in his
beard.
“That I’d live to see the day I’d be
blotch-branded for a sneakin’ beef-
snatcher,” wailed old Jevers. “Me what’s
starved on wormy corn meal to stay hon¬
est. I ain’t fightin’ no more, an’ I’m will¬
in’ yuh should take me for a fair hearin’.
I wouldn’t o’ been salty in the fust place
if yuh'd told what yuh wanted.”
L OOKING at him. Rusty had the quick
sense of believing that old Jevers
was speaking the truth. He turned back
to the girl. She was taking long breaths
that didn’t do her eye-filling figure any
harm.
Rusty made his decision. Granted that
old Jevers was clean, this was the chance
he had wanted.
“Keep yore shirt on, Jevers,” he ad¬
vised quietly. “What I’m about to do is
for your own good, and maybe mine. Who
60
Is the girl? She’s right pretty an’ she’s
got proper spunk.”
“Rita, my gran’datter,” said old Jevers.
“She’s the spittin’ image o’ her ma, an’
her dad was the son o’ the high an’ mighty
Don Adrone what wunst owned the hull
o’ the valley.”
Rusty might have guessed it was
something like that, from the girl’s
startling blue eyes and her raven black
hair. He had no time or respect for
notable ancestry though.
“I’m tying her up to keep her safe and
maybe give you a chance for your good
name,” he told Jevers as he looped slen¬
der ankles and then hitched the girl’s
arms immovably in his riata.
As he picked up the girl to carry her
into the cabin, Rusty’s skin tingled.
That was overridden though by a sudden
instinct that all of this was being
watched. It turned his keen eyes to the
rimrock.
He detected no movement, but the
sense of spying eyes stayed with him. It
caused him to talk low and fast.
“I’m doing as I was bid, Jevers,” he
said. “I'm wantin' you to ride with me.
If you’ll do exactly as I .tell you, it may
pin the cow-rustlin’ onto the rightful
hombre.”
Old Jevers seemed to have lapsed into
a dull acceptance ox whatever Rusty told
him. As he scanned the rimrock, Rusty
told Jevers to get into the cabin and,
as the old man shambled to the door.
Rusty managed to stay between him and
the rimrock.
He wanted no premature gunsmoke,
and he was sure that there would be a
try at gulching old Jevers somewhere on
the trail between the Pothole and the
Riata, where his four neighbors were sup¬
posed to meet them.
Helplessly bound in a chair, Rita
awoke to misunderstanding and speech.
At the moment Rusty was performing a
peculiar operation upon the dazed and
muttering Jevers.
Finding a pair of sheep shears, he had
gone to work unon old Jevers' long beard
and his shaggy hair. He had close clipped
most of it when the girl spoke.
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
“When I get free, I'm going to kill
you,” she said almost calmly. “I’m going
to hunt you down, Rusty Malone, as they
call you, like I would any other poisonous
snake.”
Rusty hadn’t known until then that
blue eyes could turn to black agate with
hate. He tried to grin at Rita, but he
felt kind of sick.
“I’m leaving you here and I’m trying in
my humble way to clear yore gran’pop
of the suspicion of being in cahoots with
a band of cow-stealin’ killers,” said
Rusty.
“If’n it should be so, Rita,” said old
Jevers, rubbing a hand over his queerly
shorn face and head, “it’s fer the best.
If'n Malone is runnin’ a sandy onto us,
I’ll do the killin’.”
“That clears that up,” said Rusty
cheerfully. “Come into the lean-to, Jevers.
We’re swappin’ clothes, an’ I’ll enlighten
you as to what I have in mind.”
“You’re an old fool to listen, grand¬
pa!” cried out the girl. “Can’t you see
this lowdown jasper is meanin’ to get you
shot in place of him! That’s it 1 He's be¬
ing chased, an’ he’s figuring on you being
mistaken for him!”
O LD JETERS was full of surprises.
He appeared to be stupidly half con¬
scious of what was happening. Yet he
looked searchingly into Rusty's eyes.
“Nope, Rita,” he decided. “If'n he was
bein' chased, they'd been whoopin' along
by now. All-a my life I could look at any
man an’ know if he was a square-shooter.”
“Good, Jevers!” approved Rusty.
“I still intend to kill him as soon as I’m
turned loose,” the gir‘ stated. “He's pullin’
the wool over your eyes."
Rusty closed the door leading to the
lean-to kitchen.
Some ten minutes passed, during which
Rusty took time out to watch the rim¬
rock through the lean-to window. If there
was a furtive watcher up there, he lay
low, as Rusty had imagined he would.
When they came back into the main
room, Rita’s eyes widened, but they still
held only hate for Rusty. Rusty won¬
dered within himseli if it were true that
hate is closely akin to what all at once
BUZZARD BAIT
61
seemed to become a very desirable rela¬
tionship with this girl.
“You’re leaving me hog-tied like this
and riding off with that red-headed
woman-beater, grandpa ?” exclaimed Rita.
“If anything happens to you, I could be
forgotten and starve to death.”
Jinx Jeven- grinned through his
crooked, yellow teeth. His face was
pinched with the years of scrubby living.
“If they’s seme’n honin’ to gulch yore
old gran’pop, which’n would he be drill¬
in’, child?” replied Jevers.
Rita apparently did not want to under¬
stand.
"I’m hopin’ they don't shoot you,
Rusty Malone,” she said frigidly. “I don’t
wart to be robbed of that pleasure.”
Rusty smiled at her. It was a crooked
smile, made more so by the change he had
made. He wat, garbed in old Jevers’
patched shirt and levis, with his greasy,
ancient slouch hat pulled down over his
eyes.
From under that hat, fastened inside
the sweat band protruded the long shaggy
hair of old Jevers. Ac long as he kept his
chin down and the hat low, Rusty was
the perfect image of Jevers, especially
from a side or rear view at a little dis¬
tance.
Reversing this, old Jevers was wear¬
ing Rusty’s riding gear and his newer
’brero. In every way, except for his guns,
Jevers would be taken for Rusty Malone.
“I’m hopin’ I won’t be lead-poisoned,”
said Rusty as he followed Jevers from the
cabin and gave Rita a last look. “I’d be
plumb disappointed at having you robbed
of your pleasure.”
R USTY MALONE was well aware he
was making a crazy, foolhardy
play. From the moment he stepped from
the cabin his back started itching. No tell¬
ing but what an ambusher already wait¬
ing above the rimrock would have a ner¬
vous trigger finger.
He had first put the hint of suspicion
upon Jinx Jevers. But now he believed
Jevers to be innocent. Yet others of his
four neighbors had come to an agree¬
ment with that suspicion.
If one of the four ranchers had been
double-crossing the others, working with
the raiding rustlers, the sudden demise
of Jevers by lead-poisoning would seem
to confirm the suspicion cast upon him
and, at the same time, eliminate for a
while further seeking for a guilty man.
Come to think of it. Rusty recalled
that Harden, of the dark, shrewd face
and calculating eyes, had suggested that
Rusty tote his Winchester. As they
reached the horses and mounted, with
Jevers riding in the rear, and Rusty up
ahead, as though Rusty might be a pris¬
oner, a startling conjecture was com¬
pleted in Rusty’s mind.
Suppose Jevers had been gulched, it
would mean more than likely that Rusty
would fire his Winchester at the ambush¬
er. Then when Rusty told the story of it,
perhaps it would put more suspicion on
him.
It might be argued that I gulched
Jevers myself in order to make it appear
he was guilty and had tried to escape,
was Rusty’s thought. Either way it
would work, if the guilty hombre is one
of my neighbors, he would still be in the
clear to give the tipoff for another and
final raid when the big drive would be
made in two weeks.
This mixed thinking had Rusty’s brain
in a turmoil. Jevers rode behind him, and
with Rusty’s neater clothes the old man
had come erect in the saddle. Moreover,
Jevers was mounted on Rusty’s horse,
while Rusty was a perfect picture of long¬
haired dejection on Jevers’ droop-eared,
uncurried nag.
They rode that way into the trail that
passed around the slope of the hogback.
At one side were scores of vantage points
for an ambusher. Anywhere in the two
miles of winding trail to the top of the
ridge above the Valley of Little Heaven,
there were spots that seemed created es¬
pecially for a straight-shooting gulcher.
Against the possibility of being drilled
fatally, Rusty had only the extra keen¬
ness of his eyes and ears to protect him.
His plan to make buzzard bait of him¬
self had a two-way purpose.
First, believing Jevers innocent, he
did not want the old man exposed to a
killer.
62
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
Second, he hoped this might be a trap
to bring the real renegade into the open.
To make the trap work. Rusty had to
anticipate a shooting, if he could. Fail¬
ing that, he had to survive an attack. It
kept him riding crouched low in the
saddle, Jevers’ shorn hair fluttering from
under his slouch hat.
J EVERS obeyed orders and did not talk.
Rusty devoted his entire attention to
the most likely spots for a gulcher. He
had expected that all four ranchers would
be riding to meet him.
One of the four would be forced to
bring about a separation in order to turn
gulcher, then have an alibi afterward.
Again, it was in Rusty’s mind that con¬
tact might have been made with the real
raiding killers, and that the ambush
might contain more than one slick gun
hand.
“Guess I'm a danged fool to have tried
it,” muttered Rusty to himself when they
had ridden a mile without interruption.
“If the gulcher is smart enough, he won’t
miss with his first shot.” ’
He had one thing in his favor. The
brilliant sunlight lay upon all of the pos¬
sible bushes and boulders. If he could keep
his eyes jumping fast enough, he must
certainly catch the glint of a rifle that
would have to be pushed into the open
to line him up as a target.
Like any hombre would, when time and
distance passed and nothing happened,
Rusty began to breathe easier. But it
brought a new worry.
Suppose there was no attempt to gulch
old Jevers?
When he came to the Riata and faced
Longan, Donner, Harden, and Carlson,
how could he explain his exchange of
clothes with old Jevers?
And when he had exonerated Jevers of
his own personal suspicion, where would
that leave him?
Rusty’s thinking was terminated
abruptly. He was heading his horse into
a short creek crossing with Jevers trail¬
ing closely. His faith in his eyes was jus¬
tified.
He did catch the gleaming of metal in
the sun. But it showed down in the creek
gully and he almost missed it. The rifle
cracked in the split second he was throw¬
ing himself over in the saddle.
Rusty realized the big mistake of his
whole idea only as a bullet thudded into
his shoulder. He went all the way out of
the saddle, but caught at his own Win¬
chester before he splashed into the shal¬
low water.
He had counted on having open ground
between him and the gulcher. Now he was
confronted by a twisting line of willows
and the uneven banks of the winding
creek.
He caught the glint of metal again,
however, under the belly of the horse.
His own rifle and the other one crashed
as a single shot.
Rusty could not tell if he had missed
for-the simple reason that this time the
lead seemed to strike him a terrific blow
between the eyes. Then he could see noth¬
ing as his face plunged under the water.
Consciousness lingered a few seconds,
long enough for him to know that
Jevers, mounted on his skittish horse,
came splashing through the creek and
went running out the trail toward the
Riata. His breath was cut off by water
and sand, and time went on without him.
R USTY first saw his Winchester lying
beside him. Then he saw the horse
he had been riding, peacefully grazing
at the top of the creek bank.
Swearing silently, Rusty guessed that
the cold water had revived him. His scalp
was grooved almost in the middle. But his
skull had not been busted or he would
have been dead.
That was simple enough. The rest was
not so easy. He was alone. He judged he
must have twisted his head instinctively
to get his breath and that had been what
saved him.
Then he saw the boot prints in the wet
sand near where he had lain. His vision
was still blurred but he made out the sign
of three men who had stood there, ap¬
parently looking at him. They must have
believed him dead.
Staggering back to the trail, he found
where the three men had gone back to
BUZZARD BAIT
63
their horses. He was a full minute real¬
izing what had happened after that.
“They went back up the trail,” he
muttered, reading the sign where the
horses turned. “And they started that
way fast.”
He was another minute figuring out
why the gulehers had not headed back
toward his Riata spread. The truth hit
him hard. The gulehers must have been
trailing him all the time.
"Then they know—they saw Rita—they
still think I’m Jinx Jevers they killed
and that means—”
Rusty stumbled blindly toward the
grazing horse. When he had pulled him¬
self into the saddle he could scarcely
breathe.
He was thinking bitterly of having left
Rita tied up and helpless in the Pothole
cabin. It added up that the gulehers, be¬
lieving Jinx Jevers had been liquidated
would have to remove the girl to keep her
from talking.
“They thought they had killed Jevers.
and that old Jevers was me, Rusty Ma¬
lone, riding hell for leather to the Riata
to report the gulching,” reasoned Rusty.
“If the gulcher was one of my four neigh¬
bors, then he didn’t know that Rita was
with Jevers when I was sent to bring
him in. That was discovered after I had
reached the Pothole.”
Rusty at this moment had not the
slightest idea what he could do when he
reached the Jevers’ cabin. He forgot his
headache in sickness over what he feared
he might find there.
He was just turning into the clearing
when the rifle shot crashed. His heart
almost stopped. He imagined he might
have been guessing wrong all the time.
The three riders might be all raid¬
ers who had been keeping an eye on
Jevers. Could it be possible that Jevers
had been their contact, after all?
Rusty rolled from his horse. There was
a third rifle shot. Lead clipped leaves
from a bush close to his head. He ducked
and ran forward.
He threw himself flat, exclaiming in
amazement.
“I’ve sure enough been spooked,” he
muttered. “Hell an’ Maria! It couldn’t
be!”
Two bodies lay stretched in the clear¬
ing. Their huddled shapes were evidence
of permanence. Then he saw what caused
him to forget momentarily the shot that
had narrowly missed him.
Rita was lying in the cabin doorway.
She was fully exposed to any more gun¬
fire. As Rusty cried out and started to
run toward her, Rita cracked out another
shot. Lead whined viciously off a rock
dose to Rusty. He remembered then that
Rita had said she would kill him.
“Hold it!” he yelled. “It’s me! Rusty
Malone!”
The girl screamed at him, aiming her
rifle at pointblank range.
“I know it! You got grandpa killed! I
heard them brag!”
Rusty had no chance to get from in
front of the Sharps. The rifle tongued
at him and the lead burned through one
shoulder as he tried to duck.
H E WAS smart enough to drop then,
spreading his anus, lying as looser
ly as if the bullet had split his heart.
Rita might be mad, crazed to the point
of killing, but surely she would not shoot
again if she believed him to be dead.
A ’brero appeared above the rimrock
over the cabin. Rusty saw it. wondered if
he dared risk pulling his own rifle into
line. A face showed under the ’brero and
a short gun thundered.
Rusty saw Rita twist about, jerk her
rifle into line and shoot, all in a single
movement. The ’brero of the killer fell off
and whirled down the rimrock wall.
Rita evidently could still see the face
at the top. For she triggered again after
she had jacketed to put another load into
the firing chamber. A metallic click was
the only fesponse.
The face remained queerly in view on
the rimrock. Rusty knew then that Rita’s
one shot at the gulcher had found its
target. Also he pulled in a long breath.
Rita’s Sharps wa u emptied.
Rusty climbed unsteadily to his feet.
Rita appeared trying to speak, staring at
him, but her curved red mouth stayed
open without sound. It might have been
64
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
that she imagined she saw a dead man,
Rusty Malone, whom she had killed, walk¬
ing toward her.
He should have been bitter, but he was
not. Not when he saw the spreading stain
high up on Rita's left shoulder. And the
way her legs were still bound together,
which had compelled her to crawl to the
doorway and lie there, gunning down the
three gulchers who had attacked her.
“Yore gran-pop wasn’t hit, Rita,” said
Rusty. “My hoss bolted with him when I
was dumped from the saddle. By this time
he’s like as not on his way back here
with help.”
He reached down and took the Sharps
gently from her hands.
“You’ll have to let me bandage that
wound,” he said. “If I don-’t do it pronto,
you won't be able to kill me again when
I turn you loose.”
She compressed her lips, as if she had
no words to say. He picked her up and put
her on a bu»k inside. He brought water
and found a clean cloth for a bandage.
His fingers tingled as he pulled the
dress from her torn shoulder and washed
the wound where the bullet had cut clean
through close to her throat. His own
speech was constricted as he saw what
an inch to one side would have meant.
When the bandage was placed, she was
still just looking at him.
“Lie still now,” he said. “I have one
chore yet.”
When he returned, his mouth was grim.
He had climbed the rimrock. As he came
into the cabin he heard running horses.
He made out Longan in the lead as the
riders started into the Pothole clearing.
“Yore gran’pop is coming, will be here
in a minute,” said Rusty. “You’ll have to
put off killing me until some other time.
If you want, Rita, FI1 tell them it was
me plugged the i’ella up there. He is the
hombre who was using his own new riders
as rustler and raiding the trail herds.”
“I’m ar fool, Rusty Malone, a crazy, wild
fool," she said softly. “I’ve always wanted
to live in the Valley of Little Heaven
again, where I was a little girl. I've al¬
ways hated the ranchers who took up the
valley.”
The riders were dismounting outside,
exclaiming at the dead riders in the clear¬
ing.
“You'll always hate me then?" said
Rusty slowly. “One of the ranchers is
dead. He deserved to die. When you are
well enough to kill me, that will be two
gone.”
He grinned at her. Striding steps
sounded, coming to the cabin.
“Oh, Rusty, please!” She was sobbing.
“You’ll get yore wish, Rita,” said
Rusty. “You're going to live in the valley
again. With me, honey. Then I’ll be
around to kill if you should take an¬
other notion.”
He had her tight in his arms when
Longan and Jinx Jevers came into the
doorway.
“Helps bells, Malone!” exclaimed Lon¬
gan. “Yuh knowed all the time it was
one o' us ? Them’s 2-Dot riders that’s been
salivated."
“Yeah,” said Rusty. “Carlson’s up on
the rimrock. L think we'll find the stolen
cows without much trouble. He’s the last
one I would have suspected.”
Rusty was still holding Rita in his
arms. Her hands crept around his neck.
“Glory be!” cackled old Jevers. “The
gal’s plumb out’n her mind. She’s mis-
tooken yuh fer me, Malone. That’s what
comes of stealin’ another man’s hair. Now
yuh got to be her gran’pop.”
“I'm not out of my mind,” said Rita
quietly. “An' Rusty won't be a gran’pop
until I’m a grandma. I’ll see to that.”
Your Government Asks Youv
Aid in Conserving Paper
INDIANS STILL PERIL THE WHITE MAN!
65
Indians Still Peril the White Man!
A LTHOUGH hostile Indians have
long since been subdued on the
North American continent, our
Latin neighbor-continent still must con¬
tend with the problem. This is particular¬
ly true in the jungle of the Gran Chaco.
There, hostile tribes still stalk the un¬
wary prospector, adventurer, or explor¬
er. It was into the hands of just such a
tribe that a party of twenty adventurers
fell in the winter of 1938. The story of
incredible tortures and miseries through
which these men passed was revealed
when the leader, Arnaldo Thomasina, a
Chilean oil prospector, and three other
survivors were brought into the Para¬
guayan frontier post of Fortin General
Toldeo in the Gran Chaco.
The men were the victims of jungle
vengeance, a strange revenge in which a
native chief invoked the Mosaic law of
an eye for an eye. Except that he raised
to ratio, forty to one.
The saga of the Thomasina expedition,
as told by its leader, is one of the grim¬
mest ever to come out of the silent jungle.
The party had pushed deep into the
jungle in search of oil. They had not ex¬
pected trouble from the Indians, al¬
though they had been warned. Heavily
armed, and a large party, the men felt
they could combat any danger. They did
not realize their own squabbling would
make them captives.
One night, when sentries were particu¬
larly light, the Indians struck. The ad¬
venturers were tumbled from their cots
and bound tightly with liana bands. Then,
with their bare feet prodded by chonta-
wood spears, they were driven along the
tangled jungle trail to their captor’s
communal village.
W HATEVER thought of ransom
might have been entertained was
instantly dispelled when they were
brought before the native chief. He had
only one eye, and that eye burned with
the brightness of a blood-mad man. It
was set into a painted, ferocious face.
There seemed little likelihood of mercy
being granted.
When the chief spoke, Thomasina and
his party knew they were doomed. The
chief’s eye had been flicked out by a
white man’s whip many years earlier
when the Indians had attempted to pass
a horseman on a narrow road. Ever after
the Indians swore vengeance and for
years had been seeking unwary white
men who dared brave the jungle mys¬
teries.
To Thomasina and his men he meted
out the same treatment he had given
other captives. The twenty adventurers
were thrown to the ground. Then wet
rawhide thongs, with two knots in each
piece, were placed over their eyes. The
thongs were placed in such a fashion that
the knots pressed on the eyeballs.
Little by little, as the rawhide con¬
tracted under the merciless rays of the
sun, the men’s eyes were crushed. Then,
blinded and helpless, the party was led
to the jungle to fend for itself. One after
another they died, from slow starvation,
from attacks by pumas and jaguars,
from thirst and the maddening bites of
insects. Finally only four, including
Thomasina, were left. They lashed them¬
selves together with vines and fumbled
their way through the jungles.
It was thus that a patrol found them,
led the survivors to safety. The Indian
chief and his men were not found. In¬
deed, no effort was made to track them
down; for in the Gran Chaco lurks death,
silent and swift, to many who trespass
on its secrets.
Perhaps after the war, authorities,
using tanks and planes, may be able to
wipe out the menace of bloodthirsty
jungle Indians, but until then—beware
the Gran Chaco 1
BORN CURIOUS
By RANDOLPH BARR
That raw hidin' rodeo manager wanted Texas Tom Bolt
to be the mystery rider toppin' the mystery killer hoss —
but it turned out that there was a heap more to it than
that, includin' gun-slingin' corpses and rannicky revenge/
H ANGTOWN was roaring and a good beef year and a top-price market,
ruckusing its hearty celebration Having ridden through the Devil’s Tail
of the first annual Frontier Days desert to reach Hangtown in time to
rodeo. At least Hangtownites had hopes enter the riding, Tom Bolt slaked his
the event would be annual. This had been thirst at the Royal Flush saloon. It was
“Be quiet notv" Myra said. “Don’t be
hotheaded .” Then she kissed himl
his first time in Hangtown, having been
in the saddle for five days after crossing
Powder River.
Being a long-geared, sun-cured speci¬
men of the Texas Panhandle, with dan¬
gerous, light blue eyes, Tom Bolt drew
some little attention at the bar. But he
downed three bourbons in haste and
slapped the Devil’s Tail dust out of his
sombrero without encouraging friend¬
ships.
Time enough to get acquainted with
67
68
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
Hangtown and the rich beef valley of
Job’s Basin county after he had listed
himself as a rodeo contender. Tom Bolt
was no great shakes at champ riding, but
he was good enough to cop some money
as a runner-up buckaroo.
So he had decided to combine his ad¬
vent in Job’s Basin county with the pos¬
sible chance of adding to his thin roll of
folding dinero. At the same time, he had
been born curious, as he always said with
a grin.
“Some day I’m takin’ a pasear up Utah
way an’ meet this old Pete Merkle, who
would have been my dad if my mom had¬
n’t hitched up with the rooster who -was
my dad,” Tom would say. “Old Pete must
o’ had it bad, 'cause he sent mom a gift
every year while she was alive, an’ he
never double hitched with any other
woman.”
A S he took in a full breath after the
bourbon warmed his brisket, Tom
turned back toward the street. He eyed
half a dozen oldtimers drinking at a ta¬
ble, and wondered which of these grizzled
cowmen might know old Pete, or might
even be old Pete himself.
“Time enough to look ’im up when I
get my entry in,” he muttered, going
through the batwings.
The rodeo office was an old storeroom
festooned with gala bunting. It was nigh
closing time and the riding entries would
be closed at midnight, about an hour
from now, according to the notice Tom
Bolt had read as he entered Hangtown.
“Reckon they won’t be glad-handin’ a
newcomer, maybe thinkin’ I’m a ringer,”
mused Tom as he stepped into the rodeo
office with its one table being used as a
desk.
There was but one hombre present,
seated behind the table. This gent was
red-faced and beefy of paunch. He looked
up with a tired fixed smile. Tom was
wholly unprepared for the sudden trans¬
formation in the man, the quick calculat¬
ing look in his eyes and the welcome hand
he extended.
“Tom Bolt ?” exclaimed the rodeo man.
“Yuh did say Tom Bolt, didn't yuh? An’
that you've been ridin’ a heap in the
Southwest rodeo circuit?"
“Yeah, I said so,” admitted Tom, his
born curiosity telling him this hombre
seemed to have heard of him, although
his riding rep was only local in a couple
of other states. “I’m wantin’ to enter
for the general events, ’specially the
bronc-riding.”
“Fine, mister, fine!” The red-faced man
was rubbing his fat hands. He was also
looking past Tom Bolt to the street, as
if he feared some interruption. “Me, I’m
Billings, the rodeo manager, an’ we’ve
got together a top show, if I do say it!
An' you’re just what I’ve been waitin’
for an’ had given up hope of gettin’.’’
The squinted eyes of Billings followed
the lean length of Tom’s body.
“I don’t understand,” said Tom. “May¬
be I’m pretty good on the small-time cir¬
cuit, but—”
“Lookee!" cut in Billings, stepping
around the table and coming closer to
Tom. “That makes it all the better, son.
Now I can go ahead with an idea I’ve
been mullin’ over, but getting no place.
First off, yuh ain’t to enter as Tom Bolt.
No sirree. Ain't nary one—say? Yuh
ain’t met up with nobody, have yuh?”
“Nope,” said Tom, his born curiosity
rising. “But what’s that got to do with
riding? I had another reason for cornin’
to Hangtown, an’ I just kind o’ figured
I’d pick up some extra money.”
“Fine! Fine! An’ that yuh will! Look-
it! First, yuh enter under the name of
—lemme see —Luke Long will do as well
as any. Y’see, fella, my idea’s to have a
mystery buster ride Midnight, the mys¬
tery mankiller. That’s it—yuh enter as
Luke Long, who ain’t ever been heard of
on any circuit, an’ you’ll wear a black
outfit an’ a mask, an’ we’ll whoop it
up—”
“Whope, mister!” Tom ran long fingers
through his shock of brown hair. "I'm
just a fair rider. I ain’t bustin’ ary man-
killer. Nope.”
Billings edged closer, talked lower, and
watched the street door.
“But that’s the best o' it, Luke—call¬
in’ yuh Luke right off 30 ’s I won’t make a
mistake—this hoss Midnight has some
BORN CURIOUS
69
fire an’ will give yuh a hard ride maybe,
but he ain’t the mankillin’ breed, see!”
Tom Bolt didn’t quite see. But being
born curious, he was thinking hard.
True, he was a complete stranger to
Hangtown. Perhaps the only rider en¬
tered who was that.
He could be whooped up as a mystery
rider, name of Luke Long. The ranny of
having a mysterious supposed mankilling
horse named Midnight would add some
to the first annual show.
Billings might be throwing a straight
loop. There was nary reason Tom could
see why this was other than a lucky
break for a complete stranger to Hang-
town coming along just in time to maybe
cash in on it.
Only he was curious to know why he
could not have been made a mystery
buckaroo under his own monicker of
Tom Bolt?
H E was about to ask that when the
one girl he had been waiting for
all his life to see walked through the
doorway. It struck Tom she was not the
girl that Billings wished to see right
now.
“Oh, Myra! Thought you’d gone for
the night,” exclaimed Billings. Then
hastily, “Yeah, Myra! This here’s Luke
Long, pilgrim from up Montana way, an’
he’s—well, I hadn’t told yuh, but I’m hav¬
in’ Midnight ridden now as a mystery
mankiller by a mystery rider, an’ Luke
Long’s the rider.”
Myra was tall and as slim and grace¬
ful as a new creek willow. Her eyes held
unfathomable depths, a puzzled darkness
as she looked at Tom Bolt. As if, thought
Tom, she might have been expecting or
hoping for some other galoot. Then she
was holding out a slender, tanned,
bronzed hand with fingers that clasped
his warmly.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Luke Long,” and
Myra spoke quietly, but with a deep note
in her voice that matched the question
in her eyes.
Tom murmured something, aware only
that Myra had the only mouth he had
ever wanted to kiss right off. She turned
back to Billings, and her blue-black hair
had a lustrous shine where it cascaded
over her shoulders.
"You mean, Billings, that Midnight is
a mankiller, an’ that’s why you’ve kept
him in the closed stall?” the girl said.
“He’s a beauty, that stallion, but is—I
mean is Luke Long willing and a good
enough rider—forgive me, but I’ve never
heard of you in any of the rodeo news?”
Again Tom was dazzled by the deep,
dark eyes turned upon him.
“That’s why he’s Luke Long, Myra,”
smiled Billings with his thick-lipped
mouth. But Tom was sure his eyes were
not smiling. “Don’t mention to anybody
tonight about this,” added Billings. “I am
sort o’ keeping Luke Long under cover
until the announcement of the first riding
tomorrow.”
"I see,” said Myra, and her tone said
she did not see. “Then I'll run along,
Billings.”
She turned fully toward Tom and
smiled.
“And I’ll see you again, Luke,” she
stated rather than questioned.
“You can bet yuh will,” said Tom
heartily, ignoring Billings’ scowl.
“But after the first events tomorrow,
Myra,” said Billings, “I’m putting Luke
Long up where the town won’t get nosey
ahead of time. Goo’night, Myra.”
"Who is she?” asked Tom as soon as
Myra passed through the doorway. “She
work here or somethin’?”
“Keepin’ the rodeo books,” growled
Billings. “She’s studyin’ to be a school-
ma’am. But now you get your boss quiet
like, an’ bring him along here. We’ll ride
out past the rodeo grounds, an' you’ll stay
with a couple o’ friends o’ mine who don’t
circulate much in town, an’ who don’t ask
questions."
Tom had a question though.
“You ain’t mentioned any dinero yet?
S’pose I ride this Midnight, an ! I make
him misbehave like a mankiller, even if
he ain’t, I’m wantin’ five hundred cash.”
“Five hundred?” And Billings smiled.
“You make it look good, an’ I'll double
that. C’mon.”
70
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
W HILE one roughly bearded hombre
in the shack two miles up a nar¬
row, twisting canyon could be no older
than Tom Bolt, he had furtive, watchful
eyes and all the earmarks of a long rider.
The other fellow was older, but resem¬
bled the younger one.
“Jack an’ Shorty Legg,” introduced
Billings. “Jack, this is Luke Long, an’
he’s to ride Midnight in the show. Count¬
ed on you boys puttin’ him up an’ keepin’
him under cover, seein’ you ain’t minded
to be seen in town for awhile.”
The brothers growled an assent, giving
Tom a hard-eyed once-over. Jack, the
younger, was wearing two guns. Another
pair of guns hung on the back of a chair.
Before he had brought Tom in, Bill¬
ings had gone ahead to the old cabin. He
had talked for a little spell before calling
Tom to come on.
Having been born curious, Tom played
the cards as they fell. He had a notion
it would be smart to dig his single .45
out of his bedroll and keep it With him.
Billings was good-humored now, too much
so. Tom did not have to ask if these Legg
brothers were on the dodge. It was writ¬
ten all over them, in their furtive eyes,
in the way Jack’s hands constantly
twitched toward his guns.
“I’ll be ridin’ up 'fore noon tomorrow,”
said Billings. “I’ll have everything lined
up to whoop up the riding of Midnight,
the mysterious mankiller.”
Tom did not miss the slow, twisted
grin on Jack Legg’s hard mouth, and the
way Shorty Legg was sizing him up.
“I’ll put up your hoss, mister.” said
Jack Legg. “An’ bring in your gear.”
Tom noticed that their own riding gear
had been dumped sloppily on the floor.
“Guess I’ll put up my own nag,” said
Tom. “I always look after Big Red my¬
self. He’s my ropin’ hoss, an’ he’s edgy
with strangers.”
Billings had ridden away. Jack Legg
protested, but went out with Tom and
showed him where to stable Big Red in a
shed where there were two other shaggy
broncs.
“Know this hoss Midnight?” said Tom,
keeping a wary eye upon Jack Legg. “Bad
stallion, huh?”
“Don’t know much about the beast,”
grunted Jack Legg. “He ain’t ever been
rode in these parts. Me an’ Shorty ain’t
been about the rodeo grounds. We got
reasons for holin’ up awhile.”
Jack Legg shut up then, except to say,
“Yuh can take the bunk at the back o*
the cabin. I’m havin’ to do some fixin’ up
an old saddle here in the shed, an’ you
look beat out ridin’ across the Devil’s
Tail.”
“Yeah, I’m tired,” admitted Tom, won¬
dering if Jack Legg had only guessed at
his having crossed the Devil’s Tail desert.
He heard Jack Legg hammering on
something, like he might be driving nails,
as he went into the cabin.
“Have a swig, fella,” growled Shorty
Legg, offering one of two bottles of whis¬
key Billings had fetched along. “It’ll
make yuh sleep easier.”
Right then Tom decided this whole
setup was loco. He would have doubted
even that there was a stallion called Mid¬
night if it had not been for the girl Myra
speaking of the horse.
He made only a pretense of drinking
from the bottle. Perhaps he imagined it,
but the whiskey had an offish, bitter taste.
Now he noticed that Shorty had buckled
on both of his guns.
In the meantime Tom had taken his
own revolver from his bedroll as he
spread it on the dirty boards of the bunk.
While he had only mouthed at the whiskey
bottle, he watched Shorty open a can of
beans and heap a plate.
And he was aware that Shorty’s nar¬
rowed eyes were watching him closely as
he ate the beans. He was hungry and he
cleaned up. When he had finished, he
stretched his arms and remarked that he
was sleepy and he guessed he would turn
in.
“If I was smart,” he thought, “I would
make some excuse and shag out of this.
The way Shorty is watching, he expects
the whiskey he thinks I drank to do
something to me.”
J ACK LEGG came in and picked up one
whiskey bottle. But Tom noticed that
it was not the bottle that Shorty had of¬
fered him. He was sure, too, that Jack
BORN CURIOUS
71
m- , >vi?
72
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
half nodded to his brother, as if giving
him some sort of a sign.
Tom began to have a queezy feeling.
He was convinced that if he went to sleep
now, he might not wake up when he
wished. Yet he could not fathom any rea¬
son for all this.
He stretched out on the bunk, but did
not pull off his boots. He had his .45
tucked under his belt, but realized it was
but one iron against four guns in the
hands of two men who had all the brand
of killers.
His born curiosity told Tom to play
this out. Find out what it was that had
inspired Billings suddenly to cast him
as Luke Long, a mysterious rider.
“Right after I told him I was Tom
Bolt,” mused Tom. “And he questioned
me, repeating the name Tom Bolt? It
could be that old Pete Merkle has men¬
tioned my name, but why would Billings
or anybody else want me out of the way?”
Tom feigned restlessness. Now was a
good time to test out his position. If a
ranny was being run on him, it would not
be well to go to sleep. And, being weary
with his hard ride, Tom was about to
dose his eyes in spite of himself.
The brothers still sat at the table drink¬
ing. They were still swigging from the
same bottle. The other bottle, from which
Tom was supposed to have drunk, had
not been touched.
Tom yawned, swore violently, and his
boots clumped to the floor. He had his
hand ready for a quick draw, if it hap¬
pened to be needed.
“I’m kind o’ restless,” he grumbled.
“Think I’ll take me a walk an’ get some
of the fog out’n my head. Make me sleep
some better.”
Tom was set for a quick play. One
gun might not beat out four in the hands
of two gunnies, but he could try. He swore
at his own curiosity in letting things ride
this far.
To Tom’s surprise, Jack Legg spoke in
what seemed a pleased tone.
“Reckon yuh are het up some about
that hoss Midnight,” said Jack Legg.
“Whyn’t yuh take my hoss, your3 bein’
beat out, an’ ride down to the show
grounds? They’s a night hostler, an’ he
can point out Midnight’s stall. Maybe
so if yuh size up the stallion an’ git ac¬
quainted,' you’ll rest easier.”
Tom was agreeably surprised, and he
nodded.
“Thanks. That’s a right smart idea.
You want to ride along?”
“Nope,” grunted Jack Legg. “Me an'
Shorty ain’t showin’ up for a spell. Yuh
can take either nag, an’ my saddle over
there.”
As Tom lugged the heavy saddle out¬
side, the brothers were apparently
shucking their guns and preparing to
roll in.
“Guess I’m gettin’ too edgy,” muttered
Tom. “No, dang it, I guess I will have a
look-3ee at that Midnight hoss. They’d
know I suspected ’em if I go back too
soon.”
Underneath, weary as he was, Tom
Bolt did want to see this stallion that
Billings had suddenly wanted to put into
the rodeo as a supposedly mysterious
mankiller.
T HE old range tramp acting as one
of the night hostlers at the rodeo
tent stables evidently had not pretended
to swig from a whiskey bottle. He had
made a top job of it, and Tom Bolt gave
up trying to break into his snoring.
Tom had followed the twisting canyon
back to the grounds. He did not have to
enter the town to reach the improvised
stables. Twice he imagined he had heard
riders pushing their horses fast on some
trail not far from the crooked canyon,
but he had given that little thought.
Late celebrants were still whooping it
up in the town’s open saloons.
Tom went along the tent stalls for the
broncs until he came to a shed that had
been closed in and converted into a tight
box stall with a door fastened by a hasp.
It was darker here than among the
tents where a couple of lanterns burned.
There was no light about this stall, if it
did house the stallion. Tom was fum¬
bling with the hasp when he was startled
and jerked his hand away.
This Midnight horse was restless,
whether or not he might be a killer. For
a stall board was suddenly almost splin-
BORN CURIOUS
73
tered by the drive of an iron shoe. The
horse snorted inside and tromped about
after that kick.
"Not so gentle, anyhow,” muttered
Tom. “If’n this ain’t a crazy ranny, an’
I’m gonna ride ’im, I’ll be one up by
getting acquainted. Never seen the hoss
I couldn’t make up to.”
There was another resounding kick as
Tom slowly opened the creaky door. He
placed the stallion’s tall, bulky shape in
the inside darkness. The horse threw up
his head and squealed, and Tom ducked,
seeing that the stallion had his head al¬
most in the opening door.
"Whoa, fella,” half whispered Tom,
taking it easy. “It’s a’right. C’mon, boy.”
He had two lumps of sugar in his hand
as he stepped gingerly inside the dark
stall. And he was sure that Midnight
quieted some, his muzzle reaching out.
It was as if the stallion, that wasn’t a
mankiller as Billings had assured, had
been prodded by something that caused
him to jump forward. Yet the kicking
blow that smashed the side of Tom’s head
had all the force of being driven by the
stallion’s hindfeet.
Not that Tom had time to think of
this. For he was knocked down, landing
in the straw almost under the stallion’s
feet. The horse might not be a man kill¬
er, for any terrified beast would have cut
down then with his shod hooves.
Dizzied and sick, feeling warm blood
bathing the side of his neck, Tom tried
to roll clear.
One steel-shod hoof numbed a shoul¬
der and knocked him down again as he
struggled to his hands and knees. Mid¬
night squealed with scared rage, strik¬
ing with his forefeet and lashing out with
splintering force at the back of the stall.
Tom was still able to roll, although
blood was in his eyes and the world
seemed to be spinning. Thus he had a
vague glimpse of a human figure in the
half light from outside as a man jumped
out through the doorway.
Tom could not be sure, but he thought
the man was holding a club in his hand.
He was so dazed, he imagined it might
be some stable hand coming to help him
and ready to club the stallion.
Then a shod hoof caught him behind
the ear. The stall door was being closed,
shutting him in with the maddened beast,
as Tom dropped into a well of black¬
ness. He was an inert and unconscious
bundle under the stallion’s feet, de^d to
all pain.
T HIS was like the final, timeless and
everlasting ten seconds of riding a
sunfishing devil of a leather-mouthed
bronc. Tom Bolt’s backbone seemed snap¬
ping up to click against his front teeth.
The turmoil of hot, congested blood
roared in his ears.
A chubby but troubled face floated over
him. A face that had no forehead, only a
top stretch of shiny baldness. Another
face was there, too, framed by black, lus¬
trous hair, with a curved mouth that
talked right into this last ten seconds of
his mad ride.
“Will he make it, Doc James?” The
voice was deep and full and like music.
The round mouth in the chubby face
opened and the bald head shook slowly
from side to side.
“Nope, Miss Myra, can’t give ’ina even
a fighting chance. I told Billings he’d have
to scratch off Luke Long. He won’t last
out the night.”
Tom Bolt was close to the end of this
ride. He thought he heard the crack of a
gun, like it had exploded inside his brain.
He had made that final ten seconds. This
was it, and he had beaten out the time
clock.
All at once everything was etched
clearly in his thinking. He was speaking,
weak and low, but speaking.
"I made it,” he said. "Where’s them
damn’ pickup men?”
The chubby face and the pretty one
were suddenly closer to him. The owner
of the chubby face had put a hot, sweat¬
ing hand under his shirt.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” The girl had
called the man Doc James. “A«' I told
Billings Luke Long would be dead by
midnight.”
The girl was bending close. Tom Bolt
whispered, “Myra? I made the time—I
heard the gun—”
"Yes-yes, Luke—” Her voice broke.
74
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
“You must be quiet. You will live — I know
now you’ll live.”
“By gorry!” exclaimed Doc James.
“Forty-eight hours dyin’, an’ then he
beats it. The second day of the riding.
I’ll have to hunt up Billings an’ give him
the news, as soon as I make sure.”
Tom’s mind had never worked faster.
Billings? The rodeo manager with his
Midnight mystery horse would be sur¬
prised. No. Billings must not be sur¬
prised. Why would he be surprised?
“Because Billings wanted me dead,”
said Tom’s mind.
Then Tom heard himself speaking.
“Tell Billings I am dead — under¬
stand?”
Doc James was shaking his head. But
Myra was quick.
“That’s it, Doc James,” she said.
“Billings let on he was all broken up
when Luke Long got hurt. But he was¬
n’t. I can read him. He was glad, yes, glad.
And I don’t know why.”
“Tell him I’m dead,” repeated Tom,
trying to lift his arms.
H IS muscles were numbed, slow to re¬
spond, but his arms were working.
He tried his legs. His right leg was too
stiff to be moved.
“Here, here, young fella!” said Doc
James. “You gotta take it easy. You’ve
been almost over the edge for two days
now. I can’t tell Billings you’re dead.
It ain’t ethical.”
Tom Bolt forced out words from
thoughts that were mostly subconscious.
“The hoss Midnight — he didn’t kick
me— it was—Billings has to think I’m
dead —Myra— my gun? Where’s my gun?
I've an idea—”
“For a galoot who’s just crawled back
into this world you do too much thinkin’
an’ talkin’, an’ I’ve gotta give you some¬
thin’ to put you to sleep — ” Doc James
was worried.
“No,” said Tom Bolt. “I’m dead. I
want my gun. Tell Billings I passed out
—tell ’im—doc, don’t put me to sleep
again —I want Billings — to come in — to
view the —the remains—and he will — ”
This Myra was fast thinking.
“That’s it, Doc James,” she said spir¬
itedly. “I told you I thought somebody
ran away from Midnight’s stall just be¬
fore I got the stall open and found Luke
Long in there. I’ve never rightly trusted
Billings.”
“Nobody in Hangtown ever trusted
him,” grunted Doc James. “But sayin’
a man’s dead when he’s—"
“It’s my life,” said Tom Bolt, his voice
and will growing stronger. “Doc James—
when you have a death, where’d you put
the corpse—?”
Again Myra tossed the ready loop of
her thinking tongue.
“That’ll do it, Doc James—we will move
him to Rainer’s store an’ undertaking
room—I think Luke Long knows what he
is doing.”
“I know what 1 am doing,” said Tom
slowly, carefully. “I want my gun. Take
me to the laying out—but wait—this
Rainer?”
“Joe Rahier’s my friend,” said Myra.
“Doc James, there was a stranger came
from Midnight’s stall. Midnight quieted
right down when I led him out after I saw
Luke Long in there.”
Tom tried to smile, but his face hurt
too much to be sure if his grin was a suc¬
cess.
“I’ll see that you have your gun, Luke
Long,” said Myra.
Tom halfway passed out then for a
little while. But he could hear Doc James
arguing. Finally Doc James consented.
“I’ll do it, by hell! But if’n this don’t
work out, they’ll be readin’ my shingle in
some other town.”
<<TS THERE something you want to
-I- tell me before Billings gets here,
Luke?”
Myra’s voice was soothing, but anx¬
ious. Tom Bolt wished he could move
the sheet from over his face to see the
girl. Perhaps he should tell her the truth
about who he was. No. He would wait.
“I’ve nothin’ to say, Myra, ’ceptin' I
ain’t Luke Long.”
He heard the shuffling of booted feet
on the bare boards outside the undertak¬
ing parlor of Joe Rainer, which was but
a bare storeroom where the town morti¬
cian fixed up some bodies for boothill.
BORN CURIOUS
75
“I knew that—yes, I knew that,” said
Myra quickly. “But be quiet now. Don’t
be hotheaded. Please.”
She pulled the sheet from over his
face and kissed him full on the lips. Tom
forgot for the moment that he was dead.
The gfrl gasped.
“Goodness! For a corpse you’re ter¬
rible.”
Then she was gone, her feet moving
swiftly, softly out of the dimly lighted,
musty room of death.
Tom was lying rigidly inert. He knew
now that one leg had been broken. It had
been tightly bound in splints. But his
arms had life pulsing through them. His
hands were regaining their strength.
Doc James had said that he had suf¬
fered a concussion. That he had believed
it to be a fatal fracture, with a bleed¬
ing that he could not stop. That accounted
for the roaring that was still in his ears.
Like the thunder of congested blood
during the final seconds of a hard ride.
Then Billings’ voice boomed out in the
echoing room. Tom did not dare try to see,
but he could picture the bulky, red-faced
rodeo manager, probably rubbing his
hands.
“It’s too danged bad, an’ I’m blamin’
myself for it happenin’! Only I never
thought the jasper could think of going
into Midnight’s stall alone at night! It
was a bad break, and I’m footin’ your bill
for a hangup funeral, Rainer!”
“That's a’right, an’ I’ll make it low,
Billings,” replied Rainer, the undertak¬
er. “I’ve got some business up front in
the store. You an’ your friends can have
a look at the corpse. Over there on them
trestles.”
Billings’ voice seemed filled with choked
sympathy. Tom made himself as nearly
like a dead man as he could. He pulled in
shallow breaths, knowing it would be but
seconds to a showdown now.
If he could but guess why Billings had
tried this shenanigans? Well, the clump¬
ing of other boots across the floor had told
him Billings had brought at least two
friends. Could they be the Legg brothers,
Jack and Shorty.
But Tom was unprepared for Billings’
sudden, amazing words.
“By the way, Rainer, ‘fore you leave
us,” said Billings, “I’m wantin’ you
should meet up with Tom Bolt. You know,
the young fella that Pete Merkle was alius
spoutin’ about 'fore he kicked off. He just
rode in from down Texas way—”
For a long ten seconds then Tom’s body
and brain really were paralyzed. This
was the beginning of the answer to Bill¬
ings’ quickly thought up mystery riding
of the supposed mankiller Midnight.
It came to Tom that Billings’ plan was
perfect. He had died, as Billings now be¬
lieved, under the wrong monicker of Luke
Long. As Luke Long he would be buried,
with such honors as Billings could supply.
Joe Rainer grunted something, and
added, “I’ll be back soon as I ’tend to
them customers in the front store,” and
his footsteps died away.
There had been one muttering voice in
that introduction.
“Pleased to meetcha—”
Tom would have identified that voice
anywhere. Jack Legg. Now Tom could see
the play. He could piece part of this to¬
gether. Yes, Tom Bolt might look like
anybody, being a total stranger to Hang-
town.
But this tough gunnie. Jack Legg?
How?
Billings spoke mockingly as Joe Rainer
slammed a door going out.
“Don’t you talk too much, Jack. Yuh
look good enough with them whiskers
off’n your face an’ in them new trail
clothes, but yuh gotta ride easy an’ don’t
git to drinkin’ or • shootin’ off your
mouth.”
A NOTHER voice spoke, and Tom’s
paralysis left him.
“Reckon Jack’s got his rights, Billings.
Didn’t he think up nailin’ a horseshoe on
a board to make it look like that hoss had
kicked this halfwitted pilgrim?”
“An’ I’m gettin’ you outta town pronto,
Shorty,” growled Billings. “Don’t you an’
Jack git ary idea you’ll cash in more’n
what I’m givin’ yuh. Don’t forget the
damn’ gal gits half o’ her uncle’s spread
an’—”
“An’ so you figger on hitchin’ up with
the gal,” cut in the voice of Jack Legg
76
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
harshly. “Maybe so, me bein’ Tom Bolt
an’ him bein’ laid out cold, it changes
things a mite, Billings. Shorty an’ me
was thinkin’—”
“A’right, a’right,” grunted Billings.
“An’ you make one move to change it as
I laid it down, an' I’ll put yuh behind the
bars myself, an’ folks'll believe you passed
yourself off on me as Tom Bolt. They ain’t
nary one to dispute that. Now let’s have a
look-see at Tom Bolt hisself, an’ make
sure.”
Tom was not breathing. Not until he
saw the red face of Billings through his
slitted eyes.
“I’m here to dispute it, Billings,” said
Tom quietly.
He had counted on the sudden shock of
this and it worked part way.
“Gawamighty!” gulped out Shorty
Legg, and Tom saw the bearded brother
standing with his hands hanging, useless
for the moment.
But there was Jack Legg, dressed in
new clothes, with a cold, killer’s brain,
and his hand streaking for the gun on his
thigh even as he cursed.
Billings was startled, jumping back.
And the sheet dropped over Tom’s face
before he could stop it. But the .45 snug¬
gled at his side burned a powder hole
through the winding linen, even as Tom
felt lead pound into the splinted leg.
Jack Legg was a smart gunnie, and
fast. Tom got the jolt of Jack Legg’s
weight that upset the trestles and sent
the pseudo corpse thumping to the floor.
Tangled in the sheet, Tom tried to free
his gun hand.
The agony of his broken leg put a haze
over his eyes. He could see the three fig¬
ures of Billings and the Leggs, but they
were all mixed up. All he could do was
thumb the hammer of his iron, aiming
promiscuously.
Jack Legg pitched toward him, his
hands spreading and his freshly shaved
face working with the coldness of death
flowing into his punctured vitals. And
Shorty Legg cursed then.
“Damn’ ifn yuh didn’t trick us, Bill¬
ings!”
“No! No! Shorty, don’t! I’ll give yuh
the price of Tom Bolt’s half of the Pete
Merkle spread! I’ll—"
One crashing explosion of a six-gun put
a period to Billings’ frantic plea for his
life. The rodeo manager was dying as he
fell, but mumbling.
Shorty Legg’s iron turned then upon
the “corpse” he had come to “view.” And
Tom’s gun gave a metallic click as it
reached only empty brass in the turning
cylinder.
Tom could only close his eyes, his stom¬
ach shrinking. The undertaker’s store¬
room for the dead reverberated with
the explosion of a gun.
Tom was amazed to find he could still
see.
And he saw Myra standing there, hold¬
ing a cumbersome old .45 in her two
hands. A thread of smoke still came from
its muzzle. Shorty Legg was doubled be¬
side his brother.
W HEN Doc James had dug out some
lead and put new splints on Tom
Bolt’s busted leg, Joe Rainer’s long, lu¬
gubrious face wore a funny smile.
“Dang my time, if’n I ever landed moro
undertakin’ business sudden like," said
Rainer. “Myra Conover, the next time
you have a friend wantin’ to play dead,
you’ll find me accommodatin’.”
Myra Conover?
Tom was looking into the shining dark
eyes. Old Pete Merkle had made a final
gift to his mom this year. Dying, Pete
Merkle had willed half of his big ranch
to the son whose dad he might have
been if mom hadn’t met up with Tom
Bolt's dad. The other half to this girl
he had adopted, a former partner’s
daughter, Myra Conover.
Tom was remembering that kiss Myra
had given him—no, to Luke Long.
“We wouldn’t want to split up old Pete’s
range, would we, Myra ?” said Tom hope¬
fully. “I wouldn’t be wantin’ to take up
half. I only come ridin’ ’cause I guess I
was born curious.”
“An’ I wouldn’t have been believing I
would know my man the minute I laid
eyes on him, darling, or gone out to make
sure Midnight wasn’t a mankiller if that
hadn’t been so,” said Myra gently.
ANIMALS WELL-ARMED
77
Animals Well-Armed
O UR globe-trotting army will prob¬
ably come home with many tales
of adventure and romance. Some
will want to relate an incident of the fight¬
ing front; others will probably talk about
the weather, how it rained for days with¬
out let-up, and how the sun-baked roads
had become seas of mud. Still others may
talk about the strange animals or insects
that it was their fortune, or misfortune,
to meet. For it is generally true that the
animals away from home are bigger and
more grotesque, and that the insects
are often much larger than it had pre¬
viously been thought possible the civilized
man could endure.
Probably the soldier who comes home
from somewhere in South America will
have stories to tell about the Peruvian
llama. Though the stories will seem ex¬
aggerated out of all proportion, they will
probably be true. For one of the quaint
habits of a Peruvian llama, when it takes
a dislike to a person riding it, is to stop
dead in its tracks, twist its head around
and, with considerable force and excel-
dent aim, eject a portion of its acrid
saliva upon the unlucky rider.
How unpredictable these llamas are is
illustrated by the antics of the one at
the London zoo who had developed a
strong objection to top hats. Whenever
a top hat got too near the llama, its un¬
fortunate owner would receive a charge
of malodorous saliva, delivered with the
force of a garden hose, full on his offend¬
ing headgear.
B UT the boys who are campaigning in
the tropics will have the best stories
to tell. There they will probably meet up
with the seven-inch chameleon, which can
capture a fly twelve inches away without
moving. For his artillery consists of a
tongue longer than himself, a lightning-
like, sticky-tipped weapon which is shot
out of the mouth in much the same way
as a machine-gun bullet.
Probably the fellow who fought against
the Japs in the Malaysian jungles will
want to tell about the archer fish of these
regions. This fish shoots its insect prey
with pellets of water. The deep groove
down the roof of its mouth becomes, when
the tongue is placed along it, a natural
blowpipe, and the fish can expel water
in single drops or in a continuous jet. Its
vision is so keen that it can pick out small
insects lurking in the vegetation along
the banks of a stream, and usually one
or two pellets, fired with anti-aircraft
gun accuracy, bring down the victim.
Although it is very doubtful that any
of our soldiers will care enough for liz¬
ards to watch their habits, there may
nevertheless be some hardy ones who will
have observed some of them from a safe
distance. They will discover that certain
lizards are equipped with one of nature’s
strangest safety devices. When danger
threatens, these lizards operate special
muscles and ligaments which perform a
bloodless amputation and leave their
highly colored tail flipping about on the
ground behind them. The severed tail will
squirm and wriggle for about an hour,
and while the lizard’s pursuer is investi¬
gating it, the owner escapes and very
shortly grows a new tail.
It is quite possible that, after this war
is over, our boys will be glad to content
themselves with the rattlesnakes and cop¬
perheads of their own back yards.
KILLER HANGS
The Poco Kid had been born bitter, and time hadn’t improved his
temper any. He hated the sight of a law star for a very particular
reason, and he had sworn he never would be a lawman. Yet here
he was, ironically wearing a law
badge and apparently an honest
gunner-downer of every law¬
breaker who crossed his
trail. However, things are
seldom what they seem, and
the face of destiny wears
many masks to deceive both
those who are shrewd and
those unwary!
★ ★ ★
H E polished the bright metal star
on his spotted deerskin vest
with the cuff of his plaid wool
shirt. The star reflected the light of the
full moon that had just come up to stand
like an immense yellow globe of fire on
the ridge of the Beartooth mountains.
“Me, the Poco Kid, totin’ a lawman’s
badge,” he grunted to the mettlesome,
fidgety paint horse he bestrode. “Ain’t
’at a laugh.”
But the Poco Kid’s voice was too bit¬
terly edged for laughter. He had been
caught up by one of life’s little ironies.
78
A LAW STAR.
By
WALTON
GREY
Ace Bolter threw another bullet, but
it wti3 too late. He had lead in hir
throat when he pulled trigger .
even if he would not have understood
the meaning of that language. He put it
in his own illiterate fashion.
“Yup, pa was wearin’ his rightful
when he was gutshot an’ toted home
dyin’,” muttered the Poco Kid. “An’ ’en
ma made me swear on the Book I
wouldn’t never be no lawman like him,
’at I’d never be a law rooster with a
badge. I ain’t been neither, but ’em yaps
in Crado gawked at me for two days as
if’n I was.”
He rubbed the law star some more
and pulled his vest out to see it better.
79
80
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
Then his hands eased the weight of his
pair of low-slung sixes and he shifted
in the saddle.
Besides the big moon and the shine
of the law star, there was but one other
light in the misted and murky valley un¬
der the Beartooth. This 3hone in the
window of a squat little cabin. Beyond
the cabin was a rough pole barn.
“Guess that jigger Joel Smith is hav¬
in’ his chuck by now,” remarked the
Poeo Kid. “Puny sort to be pullin’ the
wool o’ a big galoot like Quince Salter
ontil he’s willin’ to hire ary gun-swift
an’ pay a clean thousan’ jest to take
Joel Smith out'n the way o’ doin’ him
harm.”
T HE POCO KID talked to. himself
like that through long habit. Men¬
tioning his mother, Ma Harper, aroused
little or no sentiment. He had been a
button of twelve when his father had
been killed m the line of duty as sheriff.
Ma Harper had followed Pa Harper to
the family plot on a "hardacre” farm a
year later.
Drifted at thirteen, the Poco Kid had
almost forgotten that he had such a
family name as Harper. Now, ten years
later, the Poco Kid was mentioned and
cursed, and hated and feared in four or
five states, from Jackson’s Hole to Sante
Fe.
Needless to say, he had not violated
his boyhood oath never to become a law¬
man. He had never even considered be¬
ing a law rooster with a badge. But this
was the end of the second day he had
been the badge-toting deputy sheriff, ap¬
pointed by Quince Salter, mayor of
Crado, owner of the stage line and the
bank, and also the owner of several
thousand acres of prospective graze land
here in Beartooth basin. Salter was all
set to hog all basin water for his acres.
“You’ll be recognized by everybody
in Crado as the lawful deputy, me hav¬
ing talked around about sending for a
tough law-bringer by the name of
Harper,” was what Quince Salter had
told him when he had arrived. “You’ve
got one job to do. This squatter Joel
Smith an’ a dozen others like him won’t
listen to reason.
“They’ve grabbed the best water side
of the Beartooth. When I told ’em how
this big dam I’m plannin’ would easy
make twenty times their holdings props-
perous on the other side of the ridge,
they was too stubborn and dumb to see
it. Even when I promised to give them
a passel of it equal to what they’ve been
grubbin’ and starvin’ on.”
The Poco Kid had listened, not un¬
derstanding all of it. But he could see
in Quince Salter’s little, weasel eyes
that he would not be giving away one
inch of ground that belonged to him.
The Poco Kid had never been one to
give away things to others either. He
took what he wanted here and there. But
not like Quince Salter Not with pomp¬
ously righteous words and a pretense
of doing good to others.
No. The Poco Kid had taken what
struck his fancy openly, with his guns.
That was why Quince Salter had sent
for him. Salter had learned of the Poco
Kid through two gun-swifts he already
had on his payroll, neither of whom
could have posed as a deputy sheriff
before the townsmen of Crado.
Both gun-swifts had notched their
guns too quickly in Crado to be now ac¬
cepted as lawmen by the town. The Poco
Kid was a stranger and the grin on his
lean, young face made him acceptable.
So now the Poco Kid rubbed the law
star, watched it shine under the yellow
moon, and keened his eyes upon the
shadows nigh to the pole stable of Joel
Smith. He had neither seen nor heard
them, but he expected Ace Bolter and
Slim Jones to be somewhere in the vicin¬
ity of the stable.
“This is the day before Christmas,"
Salter had told the Poco Kid. “Joel Smith
has been in Crado all afternoon spend¬
ing a dollar or two of his Winter’s grub
money on junk for his damn’ kids. He’ll
be driving out to Beartooth at dark.
You’ll trail him, but keep out of sight.
“Bolter and Jones will take the other
trail out there about the same time.
They’ll cache the ten thousand in one
of the mangers in Joel Smith's stable.
KILLER HANGS A LAW STAR
81
You’ll give Smith time to get set in the
house, an* then you’ll ride up, Harper.
From there on you know what to do.”
Yes. The Poco Kid knew what to do.
Joel Smith was not to be killed. He was
not even to be lamed with a bullet unless
he put up a fight against the law—the
law being the shining star pinned onto
the Poco Kid’s vest.
“Joel Smith’s the leader of them damn’
squatters,” had been Salter’s words.
“You’ll nab him dead to rights with the
money stolen from my bank hidden in
his stable. I will have been tied up in
my own bank by this masked holdup, but
your yam will be that you saw him run
out of the back of the bank, and you
trailed him home.”
T HE POCO KID kept his eyes upon
the stable and the light in the Joel
Smith window. He had no sentiment, no
conscience in this gun chore to bring
in Joel Smith.
“Guess pa would be right proud of
me,” mused the Poco Kid, his mouth
twisting into a grin. “Yup. I’ll be liken
to a real lawman, tellin’ in court how
I follered this jigger an’ seen him cache
the money stole from the bank.”
He judged it was about time for him
to ride down the hill and make known
the presence of a law badge at the door
of the Joel Smith cabin. But as he gath¬
ered in the reins of the fiddle-footed
horse, the cabin door showed a square
of light. This closed and another light
came bobbing slowly up the hill.
The Poco Kid slipped from his beast,
tied it to a small pine where it could
grase for a few feet and soft-footed
across the hill among stunted trees and
heaps of rock.
A bobbing lantern showed stoop¬
shouldered Joel Smith. A thin-faced kid
of ten or so padded alongside him. Joel
Smith toted an axe in one hand.
A short distance from the Poco Kid
the lantern- was handed to the button.
Joel Smith sighted around.
"Think this’n make you an’ sis a right
nice Christmas tree?” said Joel Smith.
“Picked it out your ownself, didn’t you,
Johnny?”
The small boy’s voice was choked and
eager.
“Yeah, pa. That’s the one. Ain’t much
big, but it won’t make what we’re git-
tin’ look too little, I thought.”
“Your ma tell you how it was, John¬
ny?” The Poco Kid could tell Joel Smith
must be tuckered from his trip to Crado,
his voice sounding very tired.
“She didn’t hafta tell me, pa,” said
Johnny. “Didja git the hair ribbons for
ma with the pennies the teacher gi' me
for takin’ his hoss to pasture?”
“Yeah, Johnny. They’ll look real
bright in the tree, all red an’ green.”
“Ma's been colorin' the popcorn she
saved from last year, but she don’t know
'bout the ribbons, does she, pa?”
“No, Johnny, she don’t know,” said
Joel Smith.
He was tired, but he slashed at the
small fir tree with a stroke that made
the Poco Kid think Joel Smith’s mind
might have been upon Quince Salter at
the moment.
“Sis cried when ma wouldn't let her
pour any more taller for the candles.”
said Johnny. “She burnt herself some.
That’s why I had to tell her she’d git
shoes from the store on the tree an’ not
hafta wear them sheepskins ma made
for her any more when it’s cold.”
The little fir tree toppled. Joel Smith
swore, but the Poco Kid guessed it was
about the sheepskins Johnny had men¬
tioned, and not at the tree.
W HEN Joel Smith had gone back
down to the cabin with the fir
tree on his shoulder, the'Poco Kid went
back to his horse. He saw a match flicker
twice near the pole stable and knew the
time had come for him to ride down.
The Poco Kid rode up to the door and
reached over with his knuckles. Joel
Smith opened it and looked out.
“Yeah? What’s up? Oh! You’re that
new deputy, Harper. I saw you in town
this afternoon. Somethin’ wrong?”
The Poco Kid had only a vague mem¬
ory of his mother. But it was funny how
the anxious face peering over Joel
Smith’s shoulder was like that faint
recollection. Possibly it was the strained
82
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
whiteness, the worry in her eyes, re¬
vealed by the lamp she was holding.
“Naw, nothing wrong, Smith,” said
the Poco Kid. “I was jest ridin’—”
He saw the thin-faced Johnny and a
tiny girl in a funny-looking little dress.
The tiny girl was clutching her mother’s
skirt, looking up at the man on the horse
wfth eyes too big for her baby face.
Anyway, the Poco Kid stopped in what
he had intended to say about Quince
Salter’s bank being robbed. He had to
think fast, make up some story until he
could get Joel Smith alone.
“Jest ridin’ out to see if I could pick
me up another nag,” said the Poco Kid.
“Somebody told me folks on the Bear-
tooth was havin’ to sell some hosses.
My beast’s been goin’ lame on me.”
Joel Smith said: “Don’t know as any
in the valley can spare a hoss, Mr. Harp¬
er. Can’t think right off—”
“Joel,” said the white-faced woman
gently. "Ain’t you forgettin’ your man¬
ners? It's a cold ride out from town. Ask
Mr. Harper to light down. I could find
him a cup of hot—”
Joel Smith laughed. But it wasn't a
KILLER HANGS A LAW STAR
83
84
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
good laugh.
“Ma, we ain’t nothin’ but roasted
wheat for coffee, an’ Mr. Harper is used
to—”
The Poco Kid did not know why he
wheat for coffee, an’ Mr. Harper is used
o’ wheat coffee, ma’am. Useter like it
when I was a kid, but ain’t had none
in a long time.”
The coffee substitute was hot, and the
Poco Kid could drink it because he had
been somewhat chilled, waiting on the
hill, waiting for the moment when he
would ride down and call Joel Smith out
to the stable.
Johnny’s eyes were bright and blue.
The little fir tree had already been set
up in a corner of the bare, single room
of the cabin. A few strings of molasses
dipped popcorn lay on the table.
“I’ll fry you some corn dodgers, Mr.
Harper,” said the frail woman, stirring
the fire and putting on wood. “It’s all—”
“Gee, ma’am, they ain’t nothin’ I’m as
hungry for as a good corn dodger,” said
the Poco Kid.
"After tonight’s gone, it's Christmas,”
said the little girl suddenly, then
chewed her thumb bashfully, but added,
"An’ if you was stayin’ over pa’s got
two rabbits for a stew.”
Joe! Smith had been studying a knot¬
hole in the floor. He looked up and
straightened his shoulders. He was like
a man who had come to a decision.
“Johnny, you fix sis for bed,” he said.
“Come to think on it, Mr. Harper, I’ve
a right upstandin’ mare, four years old,
maybe I could let go at a fair price.”
The woman’s pale lips moved but she
did not speak with her tongue, only with
her eyes. The Poco Kid didn’t know
much about women. But somehow he
could understand that she was telling
Joel Smith not to sell the mare he had
mentioned.
“But, Johnny, ma said I could stay
up an’ see the trimmin’ on the tree an’
the candles lighted, an’ the star—”
This was the little girl, her big eyes
floating in tears. And Johnny spoke in
a low tone, but scolding a bit.
"After a while, sis. But we ain’t no
star, ’cept the paper one I cut out, an’
I don’t think it’ll stick in the tree.”
Joel Smith spoke hastily, “Yup, I'll
bet you’d like the mare, Mr. Harper.
She’s frisky on Winter feed. I ain’t much
work, an' I can use the other horse.”
Joel Smith had but two horses. The
Poco Kid got that.
He put down a half eaten corn dodger.
It was time to get on with the gun chore
he had been paid to do. This Joel Smith
wouldn’t put up a fight.
T HE POCO KID laughed inside.
Quince Salter must be laco, him
thinking this shiftless squatter, with his
family half starving on corn dodgers
and burnt wheat coffee, could fight a
big galoot who wanted to build a dam
and had the money to hire gun-slicks.
Had plenty to pay a thousand to have
Joel Salter brought to jail and got out
of his way.
Well, the Poco Kid thought of the
thousand. He could use it. He had been
on the dodge when this had come up.
And he could see, as he looked at it now,
how he would be doing Joel Smith’s kids
a favor.
If he took Joel Smith away, some¬
thing would happen to get them out of
here where their pa had kept them starv¬
ing. The Poco Kid felt sorry for such
a shiftless jigger. He bet Joel Smith’s
missus would have the spirit to find
some other place, see that her kids had
plenty to eat and a better place to live.
The Poco Kid shoved back from the
table. He felt of the handcuffs on his
hip. He would get this over a3 soon as
possible. He guessed he wouldn't make
much of a fuss about it. No use to have
the kids bawling and the woman maybe
begging for Joel Smith.
No. He was glad Joel Smith wanted
to, or rather had to, sell a horse. They
would go out to the stable. He would
have a saddle put on the mate, and then
he would just belt Joel Smith over the
head, handcuff him, load him on his own
nag, and start for Crado.
“Mind if’r. I look at the mare, Smith?”
suggested the Poco Kid.
Joel Smith got up wearily. The worn-
Do You Know That
1. Since the war started, 23,000 U.S. and Canadian lumbermen have
left the forests and gone into the armed forces or war plants.
The work these lumbermen did—like topping trees—is out of most
people's line. It requires a high degree of skill, nerve, and strength,
and thus the 23,000 lumbermen just can't be replaced today.
More than two-thirds of our wood supply is used for vital building
needs, including ships, barracks, military roads, etc. There's not
much the average person can do to conserve that lumber. But the
other third goes into wood pulp, from which paper is made—ond
there is a great deal we can all do to conserve paper.
2. Not only has the supply of paper gone down—the demand has
enormously gone up. The armed forces use an amazing quantity of
paper ond paper products. For example, 700,000 items—including
food, clothing, and weapons—must be wrapped or boxed in paper
for delivery to the Army. And the armed forces use great amounts
of paper in communications, ammunition, V-mail, camouflage, man¬
uals and blueprints. (Incredible as this may seem, it actually takes
175 tons of paper to make blueprints for one of the big, new
battleships!)
3. You might not guess it, but one of our largest users of paper is the
American home. Uncle Sam says that if the enormous needs of our
armed forces are to be filled, we should do our level best to limit
home use of paper in all possible ways—to accept unwrapped pack¬
ages when shopping, and to be careful never to waste a single piece
of stationery, towels, tissues, napkins and such-like. This is a wartime
emergency. Can the government count on getting your valuable aid
in conserving that one log out of every three that makes your paper?
4. Though all U.S. magazines use but 4% of our paper, they present
a double opportunity for you to help. First, pass along your copies to
a friend. Second, turn all used magazines and newspapers in to local
salvage agencies. Old paper can be used to make new paper.
85
86
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
an’s eyes pleaded with him, but he did
not look at her.
“Sure, Mr. Harper. Wait till I light
the lantern.”
It was Johnny who spoke up suddenly.
“But, pa, how’re you gonna plow for
corn an’ taters come Spring?” said John¬
ny. “Pa? Tr ou said us valley folks’d never
let Salter put up that dam, an’—”
Joel Smith’s head snapped erect.
“You, Johnny, be quiet! An’ Mary,
you’ve been eye-winking at me about
sellin’ the mare! It ain’t ’cause I’m quit-
tin’! We’ll use half what it brings for
grub, an’ the rest will go—”
“I know,” said Johnny. “We’re buyin’
more powder to blow the hell out’n that
dam—”
“Johnny!” It was his mother. “That’ll
be enough! Take sis an’ go to bed!”
The Poco Kid had looked at Joel
Smith’s erect head and straightened
shoulders with some wonder. For the
first time he sensed that Quince Salter
might be right in believing he had to
remove Joel Smith.
It was a new experience to the Poco
Kid. What he wanted he took. Here was
a puny jigger, with only some ribbons
for his missus and maybe a pair of shoes
for a little girl to put on a Christmas
tree, and he would sell off an animal he
sorely needed to buy dynamite to fight
the biggest and most ruthless galoot in
Crado.
“I hope you don’t pay what Johnny
said any mind, Mr. Harper,” said Joel
Smith. “Yes, I have been saving some
powder. I hope it won’t come down to
that. I don’t want to go against the law,
unless Salter does it first. But so help
me, the folks in this valley ain’t gittin’
out for him or nr other livin’ man, as
long as we have our breath.”
Not being a real lawman, the Poco Kid
felt foolish for perhaps the first time in
years.
“Ain’t none o’ my put in, Smith,” h£
said curtly. “Let’s go see that mare.
Likely I won’t be a deppity come time
for that dam to be started.”
A worn gun belt with a holstered six
hung over a chair back. But Joel Smith
was starting out without it. The Poco
Kid thought it would be better if this
squatter had his gun when he took him
into Crado.
“Hain’t yuh wearin’ yore iron, Smith?”
he suggested. “Seems I heered in town
they was some don’t like the way yuh
part yore hair.”
“Nope, I don’t bother with it out here,”
said Joel Smith. “I only keep it handy
for a crack at a snow rabbit or a quail
when they come around.”
The Poco Kid couldn’t think of any
argument. Joel Smith walked out with
him to the pole stable. The Poco Kid
took his horse along. He wanted to be
sure he had no reason to return to the
cabin after he had belted Joel Smith
over the head and trussed him up for
the trip to Crado.
T HE POCO KID had a notion that
Ace Bolter and Slim Jones would
be sticking around to make sure that
he didn’t vamoose with the ten thousand
from Quince Salter’s bank. Supposedly
stolen dinero being used as bait to con¬
demn Joel Smith in the eyes of Crado.
The Poco Kid saw the shadows of two
horses tied down by the creek because
he had his eyes keened for them. Joel
Smith was deep ir his own thoughts of
selling off the beast he needed for plow¬
ing, and walked ahead, his shoulders
stooped again.
The mare was a good animal. The
Poco Kid took in the beast’s points, but
his mind was fixed upon his other chore.
As Joel Smith led the mare out into the
lantern light, the Poco Kid had picked
up an empty gunny sack.
He edged close to Joel Smith. When
he belted him between the ears, he had
whipped the gunny sack around his gun
barrel. Joel Smith crumpled without so
much as a groan.
The Poco Kid laid Joel Smith on loose
straw where the inside of the stable
was blackest. He found the package of
folding money in the second manger.
He slipped it inside his shirt.
Right here the chore of the Poco Kid
was changed from what had been in¬
tended by Quince Salter. There was a
When answering advertisements please mention Speed Western Stories
SPEED WESTERN STORIES
tight grin across the mouth of the young
outlaw.
Instead of handcuffing Joel Smith,
tbe Poco Kid holstered his gun, picked
up the lantern and moved openly toward
his own pinto. He paused beside his
pony, pulled the handcuffs from his hip,
and let them clink to the ground.
Here it was that the Poco Kid proved
up on his long record of dodging the
law. He had survived because he had
graduated in six-gun smartness. He
had apparently been exposing himself
through begging too dumb to know that
Ace Bolter and Slim Jones had him un¬
der their guns.
The Poco Kid set the lantern on the
ground a few yards from his horse.
Moving as if to mount, he was sure the
conflicting light of the lantern and the
moon made him an uncertain, shadowy
target. He had to chance that much.
The first gun flamed nearer than he
had expected. The bullet nipped at his
vest.
Another gun blazed over to one side.
Its lead whispered past his face.
The Poco Kid staggered back, threw
out his arms and fell to his face. His
skin crawled as he thought the two
gun-swifts might make a surer finish
of it by drilling him on the ground.
But Ace Bolter and Slim Jones were
boastful of their shooting.
"Knowed he’d double-crossed the
boss!” grunted Bolter, as the pair strode
toward the Poco Kid. “Salter’ll add the
Poco Kid’s thousand to our five hun¬
dred.”
"Seems like we could light out with
all o’ the ten thousan’,” said Slim Jones.
“We could bury the Poco Kid an’ swear
he got away from us. Or we could light
a shuck ourselfs.”
“Yuh ain’t smart,” growled Ace Bolter.
"It’d be the last time we’d ever be hired
to sling our guns. We’ll take the bank
money in an’ that’ll put Salter where
we can git what we want off’n him for
as long as we hone to hang around.”
"Yeah,” said Slim Jones, stepping
ever and drawing back his boot to make
a kicking test of the Poco Kid’s demise.
The boot toe missed the ribs of the
Poco Kid. The lead from the Poco Kid’s
gun set Slim Jones down with his foot
still lifted for the kick. Thereupon Ace
Bolter threw another bullet, but it was
too late. He had lead in his throat when
he pulled trigger.
The Poco Kid heard Joel Smith’s
missus and Johnny crying out. They
came running from the cabin, with little
sis toddling after them. The Poco Kid
holstered his guns.
“Joel? Joel?”
“What’s it? Where’s pa?”
T HE white-faced woman was frantic
with fear. Johnny was making a
brave effort to keep Joel Smith’s six-gun
from shaking in his small hands.
“They was two gunnies tryin’ to steal
yore hosses,” declared the Poco Kid.
“They knocked out yore pa, Johnny. He
ain’t hurt bad, ma’am, an’ he’s in the
stable. Yuh’d best take the lantern an’
see to ’im. I had to salivate ’em two."
The trembling woman took the lan¬
tern, running into the stable. Johnny
and sis trailed after her. Sis was crying,
rubbing her eyes. The Poco Kid saw she
was wearing sheepskin pads on her
small feet.
The Poco Kid worked fast and smooth¬
ly. He could hear the woman sobbing,
trying to revive Joel Smith in the stable.
He brought up the horses of the gun-
swifts, quickly lashing their bodies
across the saddles.
Johnny came running from the stable.
“Ma sent me for water,” said Johnny.
“Pa’s breathin’, but he ain’t talkin’ yet.”
The Poco Kid rein-hitched the bur¬
dened horses to his own pony. He fol¬
lowed Johnny into the cabin.
“Yuh kin do writin’ good?” he said
to Johnny.
“Yeah—yeah, but I hafta git the water
for pa.”
“Take only a minute, Johnny,” said
the Poco Kid. “Want yuh should write
somethin’ pronto for me to put my mark
onto.”
Johnny got a stub of a pencil and
some white paper.
“Put down, to all an’ sundry," said
the Poco Kid. “I’m sellin’ my bay mare
KILLER HANGS A LAW STAR
89
to Joe Harper for cash money an’ I’m
agreein’ to keep an’ feed the same ontil
he’s wantin’ the mare. Me, Joe Harper,
is wantin’ the mare to be kept.’’
Johnny stared at him as the Poco Kid
put a cross mai*k on the paper.
“Run along with that water,’’ said the
Poco Kid. “I’m leavin’ the cash money
in the Christmas tree. An’ Johnny, tell
yore pa to use the mare for plowin’ if’n
I ain’t showed up come Spring. An’
spend the dinero for grub, ’cause he
won’t be needin’ no more powder.”
“Johnny? Hurry with that water."
His mother was calling.
“Yup, yuh hurry, Johnny," said the
Poco Kid gruffly.
When Johnny was gone he hurriedly
separated a thousand dollars from the
Salter folding money.
“Me bein’ rightfully ’titled to the
same,” he grinned, as he pushed it deep
into the branches of the fir tree.
The Poco Kid was but ten seconds fin¬
ishing another little chore he thought
of suddenly. Then he sashayed out to his
waiting pony and the two horses with
their grisly burdens.
Joel Smith was on his feet, talking,
as the Poco Kid pushed the three horses
into a fast walk crossing the creek into
the trail toward Crado.
T HE POCO KID had tangled his loop
in a new brand of warfare. He
wouldn’t have known the meaning of
the word psychology if he had met it
face to face. He knew only that he had
tackled something that could not be
written off in gunsmoke.
The pair of now voiceless gun-slingers
flopping limply across their saddles had
supplied the idea.
“Slim Jones was opinin’ him an’ Ace
Bolter should take a wide pasear with
all—a Quince Salter’s bank loot,” mused
the Poco Kid. “It’d add up to the same
as if one o' ’em had done it, if’n that’n
didn’t show up in Crado.”
He recalled an old mine shaft not far
outside the town. With his mouth set
grimly he permitted his recollection to
have its way with him.
The eager voiee of Johnny: “Didja get
GUARANTEED
Genuine DIAMOND in a
14-kt. SOLID GOLD RING
Compare this ring with others selling
for twice our price and convince your¬
self. You can’t beat this tremendous
value! Never before have we offered a
genuine diamond ring in a 14-kt. yellow
gold setting at anywheres near this sen¬
sationally low price. Remember—this is
14-kt. solid gold with a genuine dia¬
mond. This beautiful ring comes to you
in a velvetized gift box. If you want
the real thing—not an imitation—this is
your opportunity!
Same Ring in 10-kt. Gold ... $5.93
> you if you order
... _ - will include this
beautifully engraved Wedding
OUR GUARANTEE
When you get your ring, wear it 7 days. If
you are not thoroughly delighted—if you
are not fully convinced that this is the biggest
jewelry bargain you ever had, return it to us
for full refund of the purchase price.
Send $7.95 and 20% tax, and we pay post¬
age—or order C.O.D. and pay postman on
arrival $7.95 plus 20% tax and postage. No
matter how you order, our money-back guar¬
antee protects you. The quantity is limited, so
rush your order now. Be sure to state ring
SUPERIOR CO.
DEPT. T-l
415 Lexington Ave. New York 17, N. Y.
When answering advertisements Dlease mention Speed Western Stories
Use it up...
Wear it out...
That’s the thing to do in wartime. Eat !
every bite of food, save every scrap of soap,
make a patriotic habit of stretching all the
supplies in the house so they go further.
This year old coats, old shoes, are a badge
of honor. They show you’re sensible enoughs
to know that one way to keep prices down-
Is to wear your old things out!
Make it do...
or do without!
1 '
Before you spend a penny in wartime, ask
yourself, “Do I really need this? Or do I
have something now that will do?” As you
patch and dam, you keep prices down.
When you put your money in War Bonds,, j
in savings, in taxes, in insurance—you’re,
helping to fight the war and build a sound,,
stable nation for the peace to come.
Id’s your money you’re saving when
you help keep prices down. For it’s buy¬
ing too much when there’s too little to
buy that sends prices up. And when
prices go up—and keep going up—your
savings, your future, are in danger.
How can you help keep prices down?
By never spending a thin dime you
could turn into a War Stamp. By think¬
ing twice—and thinking "No”—at
every urge to open your purse.
By wearing old things out, making
makeshifts do. Remember, it’s the things
you don’t buy that keep prices down!
See that prices go no higher ...
Be a Saver—not a Buyer!
A UnltedStates war message prepared by the War Advertising Council; approved by the office ot War
Information; and contributed by this magazine In cooperation with the Magazine Publishers of America.
KILLER HANGS A LAW STAR
91
the hair ribbons for ma with the pennies
the teacher gi’ me for takin’ his hoss to
pasture?”
The prattling of sis: “After tonight’s
gone, it’s Christmas, an* if you was stay¬
in’ over pa’s got two rabbits for a stew.”
The Poco Kid pulled up the corpse-
weighted horses in the darkness below
the old mine shaft near town. He made
certain that Ace Bolton’s nag was se¬
curely tied far enough off the trail to
be missed by any chance rider.
“It’s a heap decenter buryin’ than yuh
got cornin’,” he said as he slid Bolter’s
body into the deep hole of the old shaft.
He added, “A heap decenter than ary
o’ us gun-slicks has got cornin’.”
Half an hour later he rode into Crado.
Much of the town seemed to be milling
about in the light cast by the lamps of
the Take-a-Chance saloon. There were
lights in Salter’s bank and office across
the Winter muck that was called Main
Street.
“Salter’s makin’ right sure they's a
bunch o’ townies on hand," grinned the
Poco Kid. “Be smart to know for true
what yarn the big galoot’s been spill-
in’.”
The Poco Kid rode slowly and quietly
behind the north row of buildings. He
dismounted behind the bank, carefully
tying the horse carrying the mortal re¬
mains of Slim Jones. Then he circled the
bank and general store, before riding
into view of a couple hundred citizens.
Quince Salter was holding forth in
the door of the bank. His weasel eyes
drilled into the Poco Kid. A hard smile
showed on his thin-lipped mouth. The
Poco Kid pushed his pony through the
crowd and reined up.
“Where you been?” demanded Salter
of his personally appointed deputy.
“You know my bank was robbed?”
This was as it had been agreed be¬
tween them.
“Yup, I seen it bein’ done,” replied
the Poco Kid, and the crowd pulled in
its collective breath, waiting.
“You saw it, Harper?” said Salter.
“Maybe you’ll say you’ve been chasing
the holdup? Maybe you’ll tell us he got
away?”
pii Steady
Gccd Times or Bad!
SCIENTIFIC CRIME DETECTION
It Is Easy Co Learn;
|^Me t dorfn 5 ” a ^spore'tim^'t
trained hundreds of melTan'd^wom-
identiflcation ’bn/camT throughout
America. Yon. too, may quickly
?TOu y Xffl«r t ferw 8 o W f^
sharing in the generous rewards
_ __ pg ra n offered for wanted criminals.
FREE853 PER CENT
“BLUE BOOK of aU Identification Bureaus In the
OF CRIME”
Thfabook Is fnllof excftta* men are heads of Bureaus. Many of
Information on scientific them knew nothing about crime
~ime detection. Itwillr u — J - - — v ~*— -—
ow You can get start
. grand career. Nou
amazingly low cost.
couponNow...Maii ittc
INSTITUTE OF APPLIED SCIENCE
lSMSunnyside^Ave.^Dapt 7»31_ j£SS!8LlSi!
1920 Svanyslde Ave.. Dept. 7831, Chicago 40
10K GOLD RINGS
Genuine Diamonds
MtTMMKZ
) needed everywhere. Demand is growing.
Dd pay now and bright future for trained men in this live,
expanding vocation. Learn at home, in spare time, from old
established school. Write for FREE Bulletin. No obligation.
AMERICAN SCHOOL
Dept. EEI93 Drexel at 58th St. Chicago 37
When answering advertisements please mention Speed Western Stories
“We can afford to pay more”
Every time you pay black mar¬
ket prices, you’re helping to
send prices up—that’s the way
Inflation comes. And nobody
can afford inflation
“My store doesn’t display ceiling prices"
All retailers will if you keep
asking them, “Is this the ceil¬
ing price?” Ceiling prices must
be displayed wherever goods
under ceilings are sold.
“I just don’t want to do it”
No—and our boys don’t want
to fightl But they’re doing it—
magnificently! It's up to you
on the homo front to do your
part to head off rising prices.
7
' * You should be proud
if you’re the kind of loyal, patriotic American citizen who
never pays more than ceiling prices, who pays her ration
points in full, who shares and plays square with scarce
goods!
It is because of you and millions of women like you—
cooperating with American merchants—that the cost of
living has gone up only 7 per cent since your Government’s
price control started.
But the end is not yet. So keep up the good work. Ask
every time, “Is this the ceiling price?” Never buy a single
thing that you can do without. Save your money—in the
bank, in life insurance, in War Bonds. When you use
things up, wear ’em out, make ’em do, or do without . . .
you’re helping to HOLD PRICES DOWN!
YOUR STORE Will SE GLAD TO
HAVE YOU ASK:
A United States War Message prepared
by the War Advertising Council; ap¬
proved by the Office of War Information]
KILLER HANGS A LAW STAR
93
“Nope, Salter. I nabbed ’im cold.”
“Well, where is he?” Salter could not
keep a note of gloating out of his voice.
“The gun ruffian come in an’ jumped me
from behind. He knocked me out an’ tied
me up. I didn’t so much as get a glimpse
of his face. Who is he, Harper?”
The Poco Kid eased his guns on his
thighs, taking his time.
“Maybe yuh heered his voice, Salter?”
he said cautiously. “If’n so, yuh’d know
the jigger.”
“Nope, he clunked me out with his
gun,” replied Salter. “I’ve been sayin’
I didn’t either see or hear him."
T HE POCO KID relished this mo¬
ment. He had cleared the way for
his announcement.
“They was two of ’em, an’ only one
went in the bank,” he said slowly.
“T’other’n was holdin’ the hosses. Didn’t
savvy it rightly ontil I seen the one
come out an’ pull a mask off’n his face.
An’ ’en while I was gittin' my paint,
they lit out hell for-leather.”
Quince Salter had stiffened, staring
at the Poco Kid.
“Two of them?” he said slowly and
the Poco Kid knew he wanted to yell
out this was a lie, but that would only
loop him up in his own story. “But there
was only one—I mean I didn’t hear or
see—well, there could have been two.”
The Poco Kid could read murder in
Salter’s little eyes.
“Yeah, two of ’em,” drawled the Poco
Kid. “Did they git any dinero much,
Salter?”
“Get any?” shouted Salter. “I figure
there’s nigh ten thousand missing!”
“I’ll be damned!” exclaimed the Poco
Kid. “ ’En Ace Bolter was totin’ all-a
the loot! An’ he got plumb away in the
shoot out when I downed Slim Jonds!
Wisht I’d knowed it! Even so, Bolter
was out o’ sight, headin’ for the border
whilst I was still tradin’ lead with Slim
Jones.”
“Ain’t no catchin’ him if he had that
much start!” growled a nearby towns-
do you WORRY!
Why worry and softer any j
longer if wo can help you?
Try a Brooks Patented Air I
Cushion. This marvelous J
appliance for most forms of i
reducible rupture helps hold I
nearly every rupture securely B
and gently—day and night— 1
at work and at play. Thou- ■
sands made happy. Light,
neat-fitting. No hard pads or stiff springs to chafe
or gouge. Made for men, women and children.
Durable, cheap. Sent on trial to prove it. Never
sold in stores. Beware of imitations. Write for
Free Book on Rupture, no-risk trial order plan, and
proof of results. AU Correspondence Confidential.
Brooks Company, 190 State St, Marshall, Mich.
Yaw Arch *«U+f Utomn—ndti by 1
STOP FOOT PAIN!
JO DAY being SS 'fiSJs!
FREE suffering from weak or fallen arche* win,
r 1C B. K most foot troubles, such as corns, bunic
TRIAL louses, metatarsal pain, #t*. No matter wii„. _
lust what you ^ood—THE NEW.**M08T 8cfcNTf^C*^ARC
DISCOVERY YET TO BE PERFECTED FOR YOUR INO
VIDUAL FOOT TROUBLES! Nothing like it anywhere! Rettxn
mended by leading foot doctors lor all ages. 8END NO MONEY!
Just send your name and address on a postcard or In an envelope.
Write now for your 30-DAY FREE TRIAL. FOOT AIDS. 1209
6th Avenue. Dept. SFG. New York.
ANY PHOTO ENLARGED
Size 8 x 10 Inches H am
•I DOOSIE WeiGHT MPU C
liUBsLZ™** 3 for $1.25 i
SEND NO MONEY§
^ PATENT YOUR IDEAS
WHAT 18 YOTJB INVENTION?
W upv-“-
Z. POLACHEK iS'BffiwOTStiWa
DETECTIVES
SECRET INVESTIGATIONS
sT-waraS
c wVSh'iMtoa m. 0. C.
INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE 8V8TEM
< When answering, advertisements please mention Speed Western Stories
I f I HAD KNOWN that some Americans
would be using pockets to hold all the
extra money they’re making these days, I
never would have invented them.
Pockets are good places to keep hands
warm.
Pockets are good places to hold keys ...
and loose change for carfare and newspapers.
But pockets are no place for any kind
of money except actual expense money
these days.
The place—the only place—for money
above living expenses is in War Bonds.
Bonds buy bullets for soldiers.
Bonds buy security for your old age.
Bonds buy education for your kids.
Bonds buy things you’ll need later—that
you can’t buy now.
Bonds buy peace of mind—knowing that
your money is in the fight.
Reach into the pocket I invented. Take
out all that extra cash. Invest it in interest-
bearing War Bonds.
You’ll make me very happy if you do.
You’ll be happy too.
% WAR BONDS Id Hava and fn HoW^ff
Thalia an official U.S. Treasury ,
Using Council
i oi Treasury Department
KILLER HANGS A LAW STAR
man. “You bring in this Slim Jones!
They was both mean gun-slingers!”
The crowd was eyeing Quince Salter.
No man there said it openly, but it was
in their faces that they knew Salter had
hired Ace Bolter and Slim Jones for his
personal war on the Beartooth squatters.
The Poco Kid spurred his pony around
the bank.
“I brung ’im in,” he said as he came
back with the horse bearing the body of
Slim Jones. “An’ he didn’t have ary a
dollar onto ’im.”
The townsmen drew into a circle
around the tied corpse.
The Poco Kid rode close to Quince
Salter. He leaned over in the saddle
speaking low so that only Salter could
hear.
“I’m hereby resignin’ as depitty,” said
the Poco Kid. “I’m ridin’. But I’m not
ridin’ so far I won't be knowin' what
goes on in Crado. Yuh dassent change
yore yarn, Salter.”
The Poco Kid rubbed his thumbs ca¬
ressingly over the stocks of his low-
slung guns.
“More so, Salter. Yuh ain’t buildin’ ’at
dam on Beartooth. If’n I hear yuh’ve laid
one stone or hired one gun-slick to
pester ’em squatters, I’ll be ridin’ back
to Crado for a speshul chore.”
Quince Salter opened his trap of a
mouth, but no words came from his dry
tongue as he licked at his lips.
The Poco Kid reined his pony around.
Several townsmen looked at him curi¬
ously.
“Yuh quittin’ as deputy. Harper?”
said one of the nearest. “Where’s yore
law star?"
“I’m quittin’,” said the Poco Kid flat¬
ly. “I wouldn’t be su’prised if that law
star is hangin’ at the top of a Christmas
tree.”
His heels touched the paint. He
hummed a sort of tuneless song as he
rode out of Crado. When he had picked
up Ace Bolter’s horse, he was heading
for the border himself.
The Poco Kid had neither sentiment
BE A DETECTIVE
GEORGE S. D. WAGNER, 125 W. 86th St., N. Y.
!SSM3SBT*aeF BS
R. i !^-„“s^rssrv2r* u
Live Music
Archive
Librivox
Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland
Museum of Art
Internet
Arcade
Console Living Room
Open Library
American
Libraries
TV News
Understanding
9/11